THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


'Oh!"  she  cried.     "I  had  just  come  in  and  I  thought — I 
thought  it  was  my  room. 


The  Azure  Rose 

A  Novel 


BY 

REGINALD  WRIGHT  KAUFFMAN 

Author  of  "Jim,"  "The  House  of  Bondage," 
"The  Mark  of  The  Beast,"  "Our  Navy  at  Work,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 
THE  MACAULAY  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1919 
BY  THE  MACAULAY  Co. 


PS 

3SZI 


For 

My  Friend  and  Secretary, 
LANCE-CORPORAL  ARNOLD  ROBSON, 

No.  10864,  "C"  Company,  Sixth  Battalion, 
Yorkshire  Regiment — "The  Green  Howards" — 

Who,  Leading  His  Squad,  Died  for  His  Country 

At  Suvla  Bay,  Gallipoli,  21st  August,  1915, 

Aged  Twenty. 


2130783 


PREFACE 

A  novel  about  Paris  that  is  not  about  the  war 
requires  even  now,  I  am  told,  some  word  of 
explanation.  Mine  is  brief: 

This  story  was  conceived  before  the  war  began. 
I  came  to  the  task  of  putting  it  into  its  final  shape 
after  nine  months  passed  between  the  Western 
Front  and  a  Paris  war-torn  and  war-darkened, 
both  physically  and  spiritually.  Yet,  though  I 
had  found  the  old  familiar  places,  and  the  ever 
young  and  ever  familiar  people,  wounded  and  sad, 
I  did  not  long  have  to  seek  for  the  Parisian  brav-< 
ery  in  pain  and  the  Parisian  smile  shining,  rain- 
bowlike,  through  the  tears.  Nothing  can  conquer 
France  and  nothing  can  lastingly  hurt  Paris, 
They  are,  as  a  famous  wit  said  of  our  own  so  dif 
ferent  Boston,  a  state  of  mind.  Had  the  German 
succeeded  in  the  Autumn  of  1914  or  the  Spring  of 
1918,  France  would  have  remained,  and  Paris. 
What  used  to  happen  in  the  Land  of  Love  and 


PREFACE 

the  City  of  Lights  will  happen  there  again  and  be 
-always  happening,  so  that  my  story  is  at  once  a 
retrospect  and  a  prophecy. 

Realizing  these  things,  I  have  found  it  a  pleas 
ure  to  make  this  book.  A  book  without  problems 
and  without  horrors,  its  sole  purpose  is  to  give  to 
the  reader  some  of  that  pleasure  which  went  to  its 
making.  Wars  come  and  go;  but  for  every  man 
the  Door  Opposite  stands  open  beside  the  Seine, 
the  hurdy-gurdy  plays  "Annie  Laurie"  in  the 
Street  of  the  Valley  of  Grace  and — a  Lady  of  the 
Rose  is  waiting. 

R.  W.  K. 

'Columbia,  Penna., 

Christmas  Day,   1918. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     IN  WHICH,  IF  NOT  LOVE,  AT  LEAST  AN 
GER,  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS   .         .       13 

II.  PROVIDING  THE  GENTLE  READER  WITH  A 
CARD  OF  ADMISSION  TO  THE  NEST  OF 
THE  Two  DOVES  ....  36 

III.  IN  WHICH  A  FOOL  AND  His  MONEY  ARE 

SOON  PARTED  ....      49 

IV.  A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS   ....      64 

V.  WHICH  TELLS  How  CARTARET  RETURNED 
TO  THE  RUE  DU  VAL-DE-GRACE,  AND 
WHAT  HE  FOUND  THERE  .  .  84 

VI.     CARTARET  SETS  UP  HOUSEKEEPING  .         .     102 

f 

VII.  OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY,  OF  DAY-DREAMS, 
AND  OF  A  FAR  COUNTRY  AND  ITS  SOV 
EREIGN  LADY 118 

VIII.     CHIEFLY  CONCERNING  STRAWBERRIES       .     144 

IX.     BEING  THE  TRUE  REPORT  OF  A  CHAP 
ERONED  DEJEUNER    .        .        .        .154 

X.     AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE  AND  A 
FULL    HEART,    IN    THE   COURSE   OF 
WHICH   THE   AUTHOR   BARELY   ES 
CAPES  TELLING  A  VERY  OLD  STORY  .     169 
k 


x  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XI.  TELLS  How  CARTARET'S  FORTUNE 
TURNED  TWICE  IN  A  FEW  HOURS 
AND  How  HE  FOUND  ONE  THING 
AND  LOST  ANOTHER  ....  192 

XII.     NARRATING  How  CARTARET  BEGAN  His 

QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE  ....     206 

XIII.  FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  AN  AMATEUR 

BOTANIST  ......     222 

XIV.  SOMETHING  OR  OTHER  ABOUT  TRADITIONS     253 

XV.     IN  WHICH  CARTARET  TAKES  PART  IN  THE 

REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM     .     273 

XVI.     AND  LAST "    .    300 


OUT  OF  ASHES 

Paris  as  I  knew  her 

In  the  days  ere  this — 
Paris,  when  I  threw  her 

Many  a  careless  kiss — 
Paris  of  my  pleasure, 

Bright  of  eye  and  brow, 
Town  of  squandered  treasure— 

Where's  that  Paris  now? 

Song  had  shunned  her  traces, 

Care  was  on  her  track: 
All  my  young  girls'  faces 

Pale  in  folds  of  black! 
Half  the  hearts  were  broken, 

All  the  mirth  was  fled; 
Scarce  a  vow  was  spoken, 

Save  above  the  dead.  .  .  . 

0  h,  but  there's  a  spirit 

Sorrow  cannot  kill! 
Even  now  I  hear  it 

Swear  the  great  "I  Will!" 
Paris,  at  your  portal 

Taps  the  ancient  truth, 
Laughing  and  immortal: 

Never-conquered  Youth! 

R.  W.  K. 


THE  AZURE  ROSE 


CHAPTER  I 

IN    WHICH,    IF    NOT    LOVE,    AT    LEAST   ANGER, 
LAUGHS    AT    LOCKSMITHS 

Je  ne  connais  point  la  nature  des  anges,  parce  que  je 
ne  suis  qu'  homme;  il  n'y  a  que  les  theologiens  qui  la 
connaissent. — Voltaire :  Dictionnaire  Philosophique. 

HE  did  not  know  why  he  headed  toward  his 
own  room — it  could  hold  nothing  that  he  guessed 
of  to  welcome  him,  except  further  tokens  of  the 
dejection  and  misery  he  carried  in  his  heart — but 
thither  he  went,  and,  as  he  drew  nearer,  his  step 
quickened.  By  the  time  that  he  entered  the  rue 
du  Val  de  Grace,  he  was  moving  at  something 
close  upon  a  run. 

He  hurried  up  the  rising  stairs  and  into  the 
dark  hall,  and,  as  he  did  so,  was  possessed  by 

the  sense  that  somebody  had  as  hurriedly  ascended 

13 


14  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

just  ahead  of  him.  The  door  to  his  room  was 
never  locked,  and  now  he  flung  it  wide. 

The  last  of  the  afterglow  had  all  but  faded 
from  the  sky,  and  only  the  faintest  twilight,  a 
rose-pink  twilight,  came  into  the  studio.  Rose- 
pink  :  he  thought  of  that  at  once  and  thought,  too, 
that  these  sky-roses  had  a  sweeter  scent  than  the 
roses  of  earth,  for  there  was  about  this  once- 
familiar  place  an  odor  more  delicate  and  tender 
than  any  he  had  ever  known  before.  It  was  dim, 
illusive ;  it  was  like  a  musical  poem  in  an  unknown 
tongue,  and  yet,  unlike  French  scents  and  hot 
house  flowers,  it  subtly  suggested  open  spaces  and 
mountain-peaks.  Cartaret  had  a  quick  vision  of 
sunlight  upon  snow-crests.  He  wondered  how 
such  a  perfume  could  find  its  way  through  the 
narrow,  dirty  streets  of  the  Latin  Quarter  and 
into  his  poor  room. 

And  then,  in  the  dim  light,  he  saw  a  figure 
standing  there. 

Cartaret  stopped  short. 

An  hour  ago  he  had  left  the  place  empty. 
Now,  when  he  so  wanted  solitude,  it  had  been 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS     15 

invaded.  There  was  an  intruder.  It  was  

yes,  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  him,  it  was  a  girl! 

"Who's  there?"  demanded  Cartaret. 

He  was  so  startled  that  he  asked  the  question 
in  English  and  with  his  native  American  accent. 
The  next  moment,  he  was  more  startled  when 
the  strange  girl  answered  him  in  English,  though 
an  English  oddly  precise. 

"It  is  I,"  she  said. 

"It  is  I,"  was  what  she  said  first,  and,  as  she 
said  it,  Cartaret  noted  that  her  voice  was  a  won 
derfully  soft  contralto.  What  she  next  said  was 
uttered  as  he  further  discovered  himself  to  her 
by  an  involuntary  movement  that  brought  him 
within  the  rear  window's  shaft  of  afterglow.  It 
was: 

"What  are  you  doing  here?" 

She  spoke  with  patent  amazement,  and  there 
were,  between  the  words,  four  perceptible 
pauses. 

What  was  he  doing  there?  What  was  she? 
What  light  there  was  came  from  behind  her:  he 
could  not  at  all  make  out  her  features;  he  had 


16  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

only  her  voice  to  go  by — only  her  voice  and  her 
manner  of  regal  possession — and  with  neither  was 
he  acquainted.  Good  Heavens,  hadn't  he  a  right 
to  come  unannounced  into  the  one  place  in  Paris 
that  he  might  still  call  his  own?  It  surely  ivas 
his  own.  He  looked  distractedly  about  him. 

"I  thought,"  said  Cartaret,  "that  this  was  my 
room." 

His  glance,  bewildered  as  it  was,  nevertheless 
assured  him  that  he  had  not  been  mistaken.  His 
accustomed  eye  detected  everything  that  the  twi 
light  might  hide  from  the  eye  of  a  stranger. 

Here  was  all  his  student-litter.  Here  were  the 
good  photographs  of  good  pictures,  bought  second 
hand;  the  bad  copies  of  good  pictures,  made  by 
Cartaret  himself  during  long  mornings  in  the 
Louvre,  where  impudent  tourists,  staring  at  his 
work,  jolted  his  elbow  and  craned  their  necks  be 
side  his  cheek;  there  were  the  plaster-casts  on 
brackets — casts  of  antiques  more  mutilated  than 
the  antiques  themselves;  and  here,  too,  were  the 
rows  of  lost  endeavors  in  the  shape  of  discarded 
canvases  banked  on  the  floor  along  the  walls  and 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS     17 

sometimes  jutting  far  out  into  the  room.  Two  or 
three  chairs  were  scattered  about,  one  with  a 
broken  leg — he  remembered  the  party  at  which 
it  was  broken;  across  from  the  fire-place  was  Car- 
taret's  bed  that  a  tarnished  Oriental  cover  (made 
in  Lyons)  converted  by  day  into  a  divan;  and 
close  beside  the  rear  window,  flanked  by  the 
table  on  which  he  mixed  his  colors,  stood,  almost 
at  the  elbow  of  this  imperious  intruder,  Carta- 
ret's  own  easel  with  a  virgin  canvas  in  position, 
waiting  to  receive  the  successor  to  that  picture 
which  he  had  sold  for  a  song  a  few  hours  ago. 

What  was  he  doing  here,  indeed!  He  liked 
that. 

And  she  was  still  at  it : 

"How  dare  you  think  so*?"  she  persisted. 

The  slight  pauses  between  her  words  lent  them 
more  weight  than,  even  in  his  ears,  they  other 
wise  would  have  possessed.  She  came  a  step 
nearer,  and  Cartaret  saw  that  she  was  breathing 
quickly  and  that  the  bit  of  lace  above  her  heart 
rose  and  fell  irregularly. 

"How  dare  you*?"  she  repeated. 


i8  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

She  was  close  enough  now  for  him  to  decide 
that  she  was  quite  the  most  striking  girl  he  had 
ever  seen.  Her  figure,  without  a  touch  of  exag 
geration,  was  full  and  yet  lithe:  it  moved  with 
the  grace  of  the  athlete.  Her  skin  was  rosy  and 
white — the  rose  of  health  and  the  clear  cream  of 
sane  living. 

It  was,  however,  her  manner  that  had  led  Car- 
taret  first  to  doubt  his  own  senses,  and  then  to 
doubt  hers.  This  girl  spoke  like  a  queen  resent 
ing  a  next-to-impossible  familiarity.  He  had  half 
a  mind  to  leave  the  place  and  allow  her  to  dis 
cover  her  own  mistake,  the  nature  of  which — 
his  room  ran  the  length  of  the  old  house  and  half 
its  width,  being  separated  from  a  similar  room  by 
only  a  dark  and  draughty  hallway — now  sud 
denly  revealed  itself  to  him.  He  seriously  con 
sidered  leaving  her  alone  to  the  advent  of  her 
humiliation. 

Then  he  looked  at  her  again.  Her  hair,  in 
sharp  contrast  to  the  tint  of  her  face,  was  a  shin 
ing  blue-black;  though  her  features  were  almost 
classical  in  their  regularity,  her  mouth  was  gen- 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS  19 

erous  and  sensitive,  and,  under  even  black  brows 
and  through  long,  curling  lashes,  her  eyes  shone 
frank  and  blue.  Cartaret  decided  to  remain. 

"You  are  an  artist*?"  he  inquired. 

"Leave  this  room!"  She  stamped  a  little  foot. 
"Leave  this  room  instantly!" 

Cartaret  stooped  to  one  of  the  canvases  that 
were  piled  against  the  wall  nearest  him.  He 
turned  its  face  to  her. 

"And  this  is  some  of  your  work1?"  he  asked. 

He  had  meant  to  be  only  light  and  amusing, 
but  when  he  saw  the  effect  of  his  action,  he  cursed 
himself  for  a  heavy-witted  fool:  the  girl  glanced 
first  at  the  picture  and  then  wildly  about  her. 
She  had  at  last  realized  her  mistake. 

"Oh !"  she  cried.  Her  delicate  hands  went  to 
her  face.  "I  had  just  come  in  and  I  thought — 
I  thought  it  was  my  room !" 

He  registered  a  memorandum  to  kick  himself 
as  soon  as  she  had  gone.  He  moved  awkwardly 
forward,  still  between  her  and  the  door. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.     "Everybody  drops  in 


20  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

here  at  one  time  or  another,  and  I  never  lock  my 
door." 

"But  you  do  not  understand!"  She  was  still 
speaking  through  her  unjeweled  fingers:  "Sir, 
we  moved  into  this  house  only  this  morning.  I 
went  out  for  the  first  time  ten  minutes  since.  My 
maid  did  not  want  me  to  go,  but  I  would  do  it. 
Our  room — I  understand  now  that  our  room  is 
the  other  one:  the  one  across  the  hallway.  But 
I  came  back  hurriedly,  a  little  frightened  by  the 
streets,  and  I  turned — Oh-h !"  she  ended,  "I  must 
go — I  must  go  immediately !" 

She  dropped  her  hands  and  darted  forward, 
turning  to  her  right.  Cartaret  lost  his  head: 
he  turned  to  his  right.  Each  saw  the  mistake 
and  sought  the  left;  then  darted  to  the  right 
again. 

"Let  me  pass!"  commanded  the  girl. 

Cartaret,  inwardly  condemning  his  stupidity, 
suddenly  backed.  He  backed  into  the  half  open 
door;  it  shut  behind  him  with  a  sharp  snap. 

"I'm  not  dancing,"  he  said.  "I  know  it  looks 
like  it,  but  I'm  not — truly." 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS     21 

"Then  stand  aside  and  let  me  pass." 

He  stood  aside. 

"Certainly,"  said  he;  "that  is  what  I  was  try 
ing  to  do." 

With  her  head  high,  she  walked  by  him  to  the 
door  and  turned  the  knob:  the  door  would  not 
open. 

Than  the  scorn  that  she  turned  upon  him  then, 
he  had  never  seen  anything  more  magnificent — or 
more  beautiful.  "What  is  this?"  she  asked. 

He  did  not  know. 

"It's  probably  stuck,"  he  suggested.  She  was 
beginning  to  terrify  him.  "If  you'll  allow  me 


He  bent  to  the  knob,  his  hand  just  brushing 
hers,  which  was  quickly  withdrawn.  He  pulled: 
the  door  would  not  give.  He  took  the  knob  in 
both  hands  and  raised  it :  no  success.  He  bore  all 
his  weight  down  upon  the  knob:  the  door  re 
mained  shut. 

He  looked  up  at  her  attempting  the  smile  of 
apology,  but  her  eyes,  as  soon  as  they  encountered 
his,  were  raised  to  a  calm  regard  of  the  panel 


22  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

above  his  head.  Cartaret's  gaze  returned  to  the 
door  and,  presently,  encountered  the  old  dead- 
latch  that  antedated  his  tenancy  and  that  he  had 
never  once  used:  it  was  a  deadlatch  of  a  type 
antiquated  even  in  the  Latin  Quarter,  tough  and 
enduring;  years  ago  it  had  been  pushed  back  and 
held  open  by  a  small  catch;  the  knob  whereby 
it  was  originally  worked  from  inside  the  room 
had  been  broken  off;  and  now  the  catch  had 
slipped,  the  spring-bolt  had  shot  home  and,  the 
knob  being  broken,  the  girl  and  Cartaret  were  as 
much  prisoners  in  the  room  as  if  the  lock  had 
been  on  the  other  side  of  the  door. 

The  American  broke  into  a  nervous  laugh. 

"What  now*?"  asked  the  girl,  her  eyes  hard. 

"We're  caught,"  said  Cartaret. 

She  could  only  repeat  the  word: 

"Caught?" 

"Yes.  I'm  sorry.  It  was  my  stupidity ;  I  sup 
pose  I  jolted  the  door  rather  hard  when  I  bumped 
into  it,  doing  that  tango  just  now.  Anyhow,  this 
old  lock's  sprung  into  action  and  we're  fastened 
in." 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS     23 

The  girl  looked  at  him  sharply.  A  difficult  red 
climbed  her  cheeks. 

"Open  that  door,"  she  ordered. 

"But  I  can't — not  right  away.  I'll  have  to 
try  to " 

"Open  that  door  instantly." 

"But  I  tell  you  I  can't.  Don't  you  see?"  He 
pointed  to  the  offending  deadlatch.  In  embar 
rassed  sentences,  he  explained  the  situation. 

She  did  not  appear  to  listen.  She  had  the  air 
of  one  who  has  prejudged  a  case. 

"You  are  trying  to  keep  me  in  this  room,"  she 
said. 

Her  tone  was  steady,  and  her  eyes  were  brave; 
but  it  was  evident  that  she  quite  believed  her 
statement. 

Cartaret  colored  in  his  turn. 

"Nonsense,"  said  he. 

"Then  open  the  door." 

"I  tell  you  the  lock  has  slipped." 

"If  that  is  so,  use  your  key." 

"I  haven't  any  key,"  protested  Cartaret.  "And 
even  if  I  had " 


24  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"You  have  no  key  to  your  own  room?"  She 
raised  her  eyes  scornfully.  "I  understood  you  to 
say  very  positively  that  I  was  trespassing  in  your 
room/' 

"Great  Scott!"  cried  Cartaret.  "Of  course  it's 
my  room.  You  make  me  wish  it  wasn't,  but  it 
is.  It  is  my  room,  but  you  can  see  for  yourself 
there's  no  keyhole  to  the  confounded  lock  on  this 
side  of  the  door,  and  never  was.  Look  here." 
Again  he  pointed  to  the  deadlatch:  "If  you'll 
only  come  a  little  nearer  and  look " 

"Thank  you,"  she  said.  "I  shall  remain  where 
I  am."  She  had  put  her  hand  among  the  lace 
over  her  breast;  now  the  hand,  withdrawn,  held 
an  unsheathed  knife.  "And  if  you  come  one  step 
nearer  to  me,"  she  calmly  concluded,  "I  will  kill 
you." 

It  was  the  sole  dream-touch  needed  to  perfect 
his  sense  of  the  entire  episode's  unreality.  In 
his  poor  room,  a  princess  that  he  had  never  seen 
before — that,  surely,  he  was  not  seeing  now! — 
some  royal  figure  out  of  a  lost  Hellenic  tragedy; 
her  breast  visibly  cumbered  by  the  heavy  air  of 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS     25 

modern  Paris,  her  wonderful  eyes  burning  with 
the  cold  fire  of  resolution,  she  told  him  that  she 
would  kill  him  if  he  approached  her.  And  she 
would  do  it;  she  would  kill  him  with  less  com 
punction  than  she  would  feel  in  crushing  an  of 
fending  moth! 

Cartaret  had  instinctively  jumped  at  the  first 
flash  of  the  weapon.  Now  his  laughter  returned. 
A  vision  could  not  be  impeded  by  a  sprung  lock. 

"But  you're  not  here,"  he  said. 

She  did  not  shift  by  so  much  as  a  hairbreadth 
her  position  of  defense,  yet,  ever  so  slightly,  her 
eyes  widened. 

"And  I'm  not,  either,"  he  persisted.  "Don't 
you  see1?  Things  like  this  don't  happen.  One 
of  us  is  asleep  and  dreaming — and  I  must  be  that 
one." 

Plainly  she  did  not  follow  him,  but  his  laugh 
ter  had  been  so  boyishly  innocent  as  to  make  her 
patently  doubtful  of  her  own  assumption.  He 
crowded  that  advantage. 

"Honestly,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  mean  any  harm 


26  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"You  at  least  place  yourself  in  a  strange  posi 
tion,"  the  girl  interrupted,  though  the  hand  that 
held  the  knife  was  lowered  to  her  side. 

"But  if  you  really  doubt  me,"  he  continued, 
"and  don't  want  to  wait  until  I  pick  this  lock,  let 
me  call  from  the  window  and  get  somebody  in 
the  street  to  send  up  the  concierge." 

"The  street?'  She  evidently  did  not  like  this 
idea.  "No,  not  the  street.  Why  do  you  not  ring 
for  him?" 

Cartaret's  gesture  included  the  four  walls  of 
the  room: 

"There's  no  bell." 

Still  a  little  suspicious  of  him,  ker  blue  eyes 
scanned  the  room  to  confirm  his  statement. 

"Then  why  not  call  him  from  the  window  in 
the  back?" 

"Because  his  quarters  are  at  the  front  of  the 
house,  and  he  wouldn't  hear." 

"Would  no  one  hear*?" 

"There's  nobody  in  the  garden  at  this  time  of 
day.  You  had  really  better  let  me  call  to  the 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS     27 

first  person  that  goes  along  the  street.  Somebody 
is  always  going  along,  you  know." 

He  made  two  strides  toward  the  front  window. 

"Come  back!" 

He  turned  to  find  her  with  her  face  scarlet. 
She  had  raised  the  knife. 

"Break  the  iock,"  she  said. 

"But  that  will  take  time." 

"Break  the  lock." 

"All  right;  only  why  don't  you  want  me  to  call 
for  help?" 

"And  humiliate  me  still  further?"  One  small 
foot,  cased  in  an  absurdly  light  patent-leather 
slipper  with  a  flashing  buckle,  tapped  the  floor 
angrily.  "I  have  been  foolish,  and  your  folly  has 
made  me  more  foolish,  but  I  will  not  have  it 
known  to  all  the  world  how  foolish  I  have  been. 
Break  the  lock  at  once — now — immediately." 

Cartaret  divined  that  this  was  eminently  a  time 
for  silence:  she  was  alive,  she  was  real,  and  she 
was  human.  He  opened  a  drawer  in  the  table, 
dived  under  the  divan,  plunged  behind  a  curtain 
in  one  corner,  and  at  last  found  a  shaky  hammer 


28  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

and  a  nicked  chisel  with  which  he  returned  to  the 
locked  door. 

"I'm  not  much  of  a  carpenter,"  he  said,  by  way 
of  preparatory  apology. 

The  girl  said  nothing. 

He  was  angry  at  himself  for  having  appeared 
to  such  heavy  disadvantage.  Consequently,  he 
was  unsteady.  His  first  blow  missed.  His 
strength  turned  to  mere  violence,  and  he  showered 
futile  blows  upon  the  butt  of  the  chisel.  Then  a 
misdirected  blow  hit  the  thumb  of  his  left  hand. 
He  swore  softly  and,  having  sworn,  heard  her 
laugh. 

He  looked  up:  the  knife  had  disappeared.  He 
was  pleased  at  the  change  to  merriment  that  her 
face  discovered;  but,  as  he  looked,  he  realized 
that  her  mirth  was  launched  against  his  efforts, 
and  he  was  pleased  no  longer.  His  rage  directed 
itself  from  him  to  her. 

"I'm  sorry  you  don't  approve,"  he  said  sulkily. 
"For  my  part,  I  am  quite  willing  to  stop,  I  assure 
you." 

If  an  imperious  person  may  be  said  to  have 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS     29 

tossed  her  head,  then  it  should  here  be  said  that 
this  imperious  person  now  tossed  hers. 

"Now,  shall  I  go  to  the  window  and  yell  into 
the  street^"  he  savagely  inquired. 

Her  high-tilted  chin,  her  crimsoned  cheeks  and 
the  studiously  managed  lack  of  expression  in  her 
eyes  were  proofs  that  she  had  heard  him.  Never 
theless,  she  persisted  in  her  disregard  of  his  sug 
gestion. 

Cartaret's  mood  became  more  ugly.  He  re 
solved  to  make  her  pay  attention. 

"I'll  do  it,"  he  said,  and  turned  away  from 
the  door. 

That  brought  the  answer.  She  looked  at  him 
in  angry  horror. 

"And  make  us  the  laughing-stock  of  the  neigh 
borhood4?"  she  cried.  "Is  it  not  enough  that  you 
have  shut  me  in  here,  that  you  have  insulted  me, 
that " 

"Insulted  you1?"  He  stood  with  the  hammer 
in  one  hand  and  the  chisel  in  the  other,  a  rather 
unromantic  figure  of  protest.  "I  never  did  any 
thing  of  the  sort." 


30  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

He  made  a  flourish  and  dropped  the  hammer. 
When  he  picked  it  up,  he  saw  that  she  stood 
there,  looking  over  his  bent  head,  with  eyes  sternly 
kept  serene;  but  he  saw  also  that  her  cheeks  re 
mained  aglow  and  that  her  breath  came  short. 

"I  never  did  anything  of  the  sort,"  he  went 
on.  "How  could  I?" 

"How  could  you?"     She  clenched  her  hands. 

"I  don't  mean  that."  He  could  have  bit 
ten  out  his  tongue.  He  floundered  in  a  marsh 
of  confusion.  "I  mean — I  mean — Oh,  I  don't 
know  what  I  mean,  except  that  I  beg  you  to 
believe  I  am  incapable  of  the  impudence  you 
charge!  I  came  in  here  and  found  the  most 
beautiful  woman " 

She  recoiled. 

"You  speak  so  to  me?" 

It  was  out:  he  had  to  go  ahead  MOW.  He  did 
not  at  all  recognize  himself:  this  was  not  Ameri 
can;  it  was  wholly  Gallic. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  he  said,  "you  are." 

"Go  to  work,"  said  the  girl. 

"But  I  want  you  to  understand " 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS     31 

Two  tears,  twin  diamonds  of  mortification, 
shone  in  her  blue  eyes. 

"You  have  humiliated  me,  and  mortified  me, 
and  insulted  me!"  she  persisted.  Her  white 
throat  swallowed  the  chagrin,  and  anger  re 
turned  to  take  its  place.  "If  you  are  what  you 
pretend  to  be,  you  will  go  back  to  your  work  of 
opening  that  door.  If  I  were  the  strong  man 
that  you  are,  I  should  have  broken  it  open  long 
ago." 

She  had  a  handsome  ferocity.  Cartaret  put 
one  broad  shoulder  to  the  door  and  both  hands 
to  the  knob.  There  was  a  tremendous  wrench 
ing  and  splitting:  the  door  swung  open.  He 
turned  and  bowed. 

"It's  open,"  he  said. 

To  his  amazement,  her  mood  had  entirely 
changed.  Whether  his  action  had  served  as 
proof  of  his  declared  sincerity,  or  whether  her 
brief  reflection  on  his  words  had  itself  served  him 
this  good  turn,  he  could  not  guess;  but  he  saw 
now  that  her  eyes  had  softened  and  that  her 
iinderlip  quivered. 


32  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"Good  afternoon,"  said  Cartaret. 

"Good-by,"  said  she. 

She  moved  toward  the  door,  then  stopped. 

"I  hope  that  you  will  pardon  me,"  she  said, 
and  she  spoke  as  if  she  were  not  accustomed  to 
asking  pardon.  "I  have  been  too  quick  and 
very  foolish.  You  must  know  that  I  am  new  to 
Paris — new  to  France — new  to  cities — and  that 
I  have  heard  strange  stories  of  Parisians  and  of 
the  men  of  the  large  towns." 

Cartaret  was  more  than  mollified,  but  he  took 
a  grip  upon  his  emotions  and  resolved  to  pur 
sue  this  advantage. 

"At  least,"  he  said,  "you  should  have  seen 
that  I  was  your  own  sort." 

"My  own — my  own  sort?"  She  did  not  seem 
to  comprehend. 

"Well,  of  your  own  class,  then."  This  girl 
had  an  impish  faculty  for  making  him  say  things 
that  sounded  priggish:  "You  should  have  seen 
I  was  of  your  own  class." 

Again  her  eyes  widened.  Then  she  tossed  her 
head  and  laughed  a  little  silvery  laugh. 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS     33 

He  fancied  the  laugh  disdainful,  and  thought 
so  the  more  when  she  seemed  to  detect  his  sus 
picion  and  tried  to  allay  it  by  an  alteration  of 
tone. 

"I  mean  exactly  that,"  he  said. 

She  bit  her  red  lip,  and  Cartaret  noted  that 
her  teeth  were  even  and  white. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  begged. 

She  put  out  her  hand  so  frankly  that  he 
would  have  forgiven  her  anything.  He  took  the 
hand  and,  as  it  nestled  softer  than  any  satin  in 
his,  he  felt  his  heart  hammer  in  his  breast. 

"Forgive  me,"  she  was  repeating, 

"I  hope  you'll  forgive  me"  he  muttered.  "At 
any  rate,  you  can't  forget  me:  you'll  have  to 
remember  me  as  the  greatest  boor  you  ever  met." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"It  was  I  that  was  foolish." 

"Oh,  but  it  wasn't!    I " 

He  stopped,  for  her  eyes  had  fallen  from  his 
and  rested  on  their  clasped  hands.  He  released 
her  instantly. 

"Good-by,"  she  said  again. 


34  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"Good But  surely  I'm  to  see  you  once  in 

a  while!" 

"I  do  not  know." 

"Why,  we're  neighbors!  You  can't  mean  that 
you  won't  let  me " 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  said.    "Good-by." 

She  went  out,  drawing-to  the  shattered  door 
behind  her. 

Cartaret  leaned  against  the  panel  and  listened 
shamelessly. 

He  heard  her  cross  the  hall  and  open  the  door 
to  the  opposite  room;  he  heard  her  suspiciously 
greeted  by  another  voice — a  voice  that  he  gladly 
recognized  as  feminine — and  in  a  language  that 
was  wholly  unfamiliar  to  him:  a  language  that 
sounded  somehow  Oriental.  Then  he  heard  the 
other  door  shut,  and  he  turned  to  the  comfort 
less  gloom  of  his  own  quarters. 

He  sat  down  on  the  bed.  He  had  forgotten  a 
riotous  dinner  that  was  to  have  been  his  final 
Parisian  folly,  forgotten  his  poverty,  forgotten 
his  day  of  disappointment  and  his  desire  to  go 
back  to  Ohio  and  the  law.  He  remembered  only 


ANGER  LAUGHS  AT  LOCKSMITHS    35 

the  events  of  the  last  quarter-hour  and  the  girl 
that  had  made  them  what  they  were. 

As  he  sat  there,  there  seemed  to  come  again 
into  the  silent  room  the  perfume  he  had  noticed 
when  he  returned.  It  seemed  to  float  in  on  the 
twilight,  still  dimly  pink  behind  the  roofs  of  the 
gray  houses  along  the  BouP  Miche :  subtle,  haunt 
ing,  an  odor  more  delicate  and  tender  than  any 
he  had  ever  known  before. 

He  raised  his  head.  He  saw  something  white 
lying  on  the  floor — lying  where,  a  few  moments 
since,  he  had  stood.  He  went  forward  and 
picked  it  up. 

It  was  a  flower  like  a  rose — a  white  rose — 
but  unlike  any  rose  of  which  Cartaret  had  any 
knowledge.  It  was  small,  but  perfect,  its  pure 
petals  gathered  tight  against  its  heart,  and  from 
its  heart  came  the  perfume  that  had  seemed  to 
him  like  a  musical  poem  in  an  unknown  tongue. 

For  a  second  time  Cartaret  had  that  quick 
vision  of  the  sunlight  upon  snow-crests  and  the 
virgin  sheen  of  unattainable  mountain  tops.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  II 

PROVIDING  THE  GENTLE  READER  WITH  A  CARD 
OF  ADMISSION  TO  THE  NEST  OF  THE  TWO 
DOVES 

Dans  ces  questions  de  credit,  il  faut  toujours  frapper 
1*  imagination.  L'idee  de  genie,  c'est  de  prendre  dans  la 
poche  des  gens  1'argent  qui  n'y  est  pas  encore. — Zola: 

L'Argent. 

UNTIL  just  before  the  appearance  of  Charlie 
Cartaret's  rosy  vision,  this  had  been  a  day  of 
darkness  and  wet.  Rain — a  dull,  hopeless,  Feb 
ruary  rain — fell  with  implacable  monotony.  It 
descended  in  fine  spray,  as  if  too  lazy  to  hurry, 
yet  too  spiteful  to  stop.  It  made  all  Paris  miser 
able;  but,  as  is  the  way  with  Parisian  rains, 
it  was  a  great  deal  wetter  on  the  Left  Bank  of 
the  Seine  than  on  the  Right. 

No  rain — not  even  in  those  happy  times  be 
fore  the  great  war — ever  washed  the  Left  Bank 

clean,  and  this  one  only  made  it  a  marsh.     A 

36 


THE  NEST  OF  THE  TWO  DOVES     37 

curtain  of  fog  fell  sheer  between  the  Isle  de  la 
Cite  and  the  Quai  des  Augustins;  the  twin 
towers  of  St.  Sulpice  staggered  up  into  a  pall  of 
fog  and  were  lost  in  it.  The  gray  houses 
hunched  their  shoulders,  lowered  their  heads, 
drew  their  mansard  hats  and  gabled  caps  over 
their  noses  and  stood  like  rows  of  patient  horses 
at  a  cabstand  under  the  gray  downpour.  Now 
and  again  a  real  cab  scuttled  along  the  streets, 
its  skinny  beast  clop-clopping  over  the  wooden 
paving,  or  slipping  among  the  cobbled  ways, 
its  driver  hidden  under  a  mountainous  pile  of 
woolen  great-coat  and  rubber  cape.  Even  the 
taxis  lacked  the  proud  air  with  which  they 
habitually  splash  pedestrians,  and  such  pedes 
trians  as  business  forced  upon  the  early  after 
noon  thoroughfares  went  with  heads  bowed  like 
the  houses'  and  umbrellas  leveled  like  flying- 
jibs. 

In  front  of  the  little  Cafe  Des  Deux  Colom- 
bes,  the  two  marble-topped  tables  which  occu 
pied  its  scant  frontage  on  the  rue  Jacob,  were 
deserted  by  all  save  their  four  iron-backed  chairs 


38  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

with  wet  seats  and  their  twin  water-bottles  into 
which,  with  mathematical  precision,  water 
dropped  from  a  pair  of  holes  in  the  sagging  can 
vas  overhead.  Inside,  however,  there  were 
lighted  gas-jets,  the  proprietor  and  the  pro 
prietor's  wife — presumably  the  pair  of  doves  for 
whom  the  Cafe  was  named — and  a  man  that 
was  trying  to  look  like  a  customer. 

Gaston  Francois  Louis  Pasbeaucoup  had  an 
apron  tied  about  his  middle,  and,  standing  be 
fore  the  intended  patron's  table,  leaned  what 
weight  he  had — it  was  not  much — upon  his 
finger-tips.  His  mustache  was  fierce  enough  to 
grace  the  upper  lip  of  a  deputy  from  the  Bouches- 
du-Rhone  and  generous  enough  to  spare  many 
a  contribution  to  the  plat-du-jour;  but  his  mus 
tache  was  the  only  large  thing  about  him — al 
ways  excepting  Madame  his  wife,  who  was  ever 
somewhere  about  him  and  who  was  just  now,  two 
hundred  and  twenty  pounds  of  evidence  to  the 
good  food  of  the  Deux  Colombes,  stuffed  into 
a  wire  cage  at  one  end  of  the  bar,  and  bulging 
out  of  it,  her  eyebrows  meeting  over  her  pug- 


THE  NEST  OF  THE  TWO  DOVES    39 

nose  and  the  heap  of  hair  leaping  from  her  head 
nearly  to  the  ceiling,  while  her  lips  and  fingers 
were  busy  adding  the  bills  from  dejeuner. 

"It  would  greatly  pleasure  me  to  accommodate 
monsieur,"  Pasbeaucoup  was  whispering,  "but 
monsieur  must  know  that  already " 

The  sentence  ended  in  a  deprecating  glance 
over  the  speaker's  shoulder  in  the  general  direc 
tion  of  mighty  Madame. 

"Already*?  Already  what  then?"  demanded 
the  intending  customer. 

He  was  lounging  on  the  wall-seat  behind  his 
table,  and  he  had  an  aristocratic  air  surprisingly 
at  variance  with  his  garments.  His  black  jacket 
shone  too  highly  at  the  elbows,  and  its  short 
sleeves  betrayed  an  unnecessary  length  of  red 
wrist.  His  black  boots  gasped  for  repair;  a  soft 
black  hat,  pushed  to  the  back  of  his  black  hair, 
still  dripped  from  an  unprotected  voyage  along 
the  rainy  street,  and  his  neckcloth,  which  was 
also  long  and  soft  and  black,  showed  a  spot  or 
two  not  put  there  by  its  makers.  These  were 
patently  matters  beyond  their  owner's  command 


40  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

and  beneath  the  dignity  of  his  attention.  Against 
them  one  was  compelled  to  set  a  manner  truly 
lofty,  which  was  enhanced  by  a  pair  of  burning, 
deep-placed  eyes,  a  thin  white  face  and,  sprout 
ing  from  either  side  of  his  lower  jaw,  near  the 
chin,  two  wisps  of  ebon  whisker.  He  frowned 
majestically,  and  he  smoked  a  caporal  cigarette 
as  if  it  were  a  Havana  cigar. 

"Already  what?"  he  loudly  repeated.  "If  it 
is  possible!  I  patronize  your  cabbage  of  a  cafe 
for  five  years,  and  now  you  put  me  off  with 
your  alreadys!" 

Pasbeaucoup,  his  fingers  still  resting  on  the 
table,  danced  in  embarrassment  and  rolled  his 
eyes  in  a  manner  that  plainly  enough  warned 
monsieur  not  to  let  his  voice  reach  the  caged 
lady. 

"I  was  but  about  to  say  that  monsieur  already 
owes  us  the  trifling  sum  of " 

"Sixty  francs,  twenty- five!" 

The  tone  that  announced  these  fateful  nu 
merals  was  so  tremendous  a  contralto  as  to  be 


THE  NEST  OF  THE  TWO  DOVES    41 

really  bass.  It  came  from  the  wire  cage  and 
belonged  to  Madame. 

Pasbeaucoup  sank  into  the  nearest  chair.  He 
spread  out  his  hands  in  a  gesture  that  elo 
quently  said: 

"Now  you've  done  it!  I  can't  shield  you 
any  longer!" 

The  debtor,  albeit  he  was  still  a  young  man, 
did  not  appear  unduly  impressed.  The  table 
was  across  his  knees,  but  he  rose  as  far  as  it 
would  permit  and  removed  his  hat  with  a  flour 
ish  that  sent  a  spray  of  water  directly  over 
Madame's  monument  of  hair.  Disregarding 
the  blatant  fact  that  she  was  quite  the  most 
remarkable  feature  of  the  room,  he  vowed  that 
he  had  not  observed  her  upon  entering,  was 
desolated  because  of  his  oversight  and  ravished 
now  to  have  the  pleasure  of  once  more  behold 
ing  her  in  all  her  accustomed  grace  and  charm. 

Madame  shrugged  her  shoulders  higher  than 
the  walls  of  the  cage. 

"Sixty  francs,  twenty-five,"  she  said,  without 
looking  up  from  her  task. 


42  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

Ah,  yes:  his  little  account.  Monsieur  recalled 
that:  there  was  a  little  account;  but,  so  truly  as 
his  name  was  Seraphin  and  his  passion  Art,  what 
a  marvelous  head  Madame  had  for  figures.  It 
was  of  an  exactitude  magnificent! 

When  he  paused,  Madame  said: 

"Sixty  francs,  twenty-five." 

"But  surely,  Madame "  Seraphin  Dieu- 

donne  was  politely  amazed;  he  did  not  desire  to 
credit  her  with  an  impoliteness,  and  yet  she 
seemed  to  imply  that,  unless  he  paid  this  ab 
surdly  little  sum,  there  might  be  some  delay  in 
serving  him  in  this  so  excellent  establishment. 

"C'est  ga"  said  Madame.  "The  delay  will 
be  entire." 

"Incomprehensible!"  Seraphin  put  a  bony 
hand  to  his  heart.  "Do  you  not  know — all  the 
world  of  the  Quartier  knows — that  I  have,  Ma 
dame,  but  three  days'  work  more  upon  my  mag 
num  opus — a  week  at  the  utmost — and  that  then 
it  can  sell  for  not  a  sou  less  than  fifteen  thou 
sand  francs'?" 

Madame's  face  never  changed  expression  when 


THE  NEST  OF  THE  TWO  DOVES    43 

she  talked;  it  always  seemed  set  at  the  only  angle 
that  would  balance  her  monument  of  hair.  She 
now  said: 

"What  all  the  world  of  the  Quartier  knows  is 
that  your  last  magnum  opus  you  sold  to  that 
simpleton  Fourget  in  the  rue  St.  Andre  des 
Arts;  that  even  from  him  you  could  squeeze  but 
a  hundred  francs  for  it;  and  that  he  has  not  yet 
been  able  to  find  a  customer." 

At  first  Seraphin  seemed  slow  to  credit  the 
scorn  that  Madame  was  at  such  pains  to  reveal. 
He  made  one  valiant  effort  to  overlook  it,  and 
failed;  then  he  made  an  effort  no  less  valiant  to 
meet  her  with  the  ridiculous  majesty  in  which 
he  habitually  draped  himself.  It  was  as  if,  un 
able  to  make  her  believe  in  him,  he  at  least 
wanted  her  to  believe  that  his  long  struggle 
with  poverty  and  an  indifferent  public  had  served 
only  to  increase  his  confidence  in  his  own  genius 
and  to  rear  between  him  and  the  world  a  wall 
through  which  the  arrows  of  the  scornful  could 
hardly  pass.  But  this  attempt  succeeded  no 
more  than  its  predecessor:  as  he  half  stood,  half 


44  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

bent  before  this  landlady  of  a  fifth-rate  cafe,  a 
tardy  pink  crept  up  his  white  face  and  painted 
the  skin  over  his  cheek-bones;  his  eyelids  flut 
tered,  and  his  mouth  worked.  The  man  was 
hungry. 

"Madeleine!"  whispered  Pasbeaucoup,  com 
passion  for  the  debtor  almost  overcoming  fear 
of  the  wife. 

Seraphin  wet  his  lips. 

"Madame "  he  began. 

"Sixty  francs,  twenty-five,"  said  Madame. 
"Ca  y  estr 

As  she  said  it,  the  door  of  the  Deux  Colombes 
opened  and  another  patron,  at  once  evidently 
a  more  welcome  patron,  presented  himself.  He 
was  a  plump  little  man  with  hands  that  were 
thinly  at  contrast  with  the  rest  of  him.  He 
was  fairly  well  dressed,  but  far  better  fed,  and 
so  contented  with  his  lot  as  to  have  no  eye  for 
the  evident  lot  of  Seraphin.  He  was  Maurice 
Houdon,  who  had  decided  some  day  to  be  a 
great  composer  and  who  meanwhile  overcharged 
a  few  English  and  American  pupils  for  lessons 


THE  NEST  OF  THE  TWO  DOVES    ^ 

on  the  piano  and  borrowed  money  from  a&y 
that  would  trust  him.  He  stormed  Dieudonne, 
leaned  over  the  intervening  table  and  embraced 
him. 

"My  dear  friend !"  he  cried,  his  arms  outflung, 
his  fingers  rattling  rapid  arpeggios  upon  invisible 
pianos.  "You  are  indeed  well  found.  I  have 
news — such  news!"  He  thrust  back  his  head 
and  warbled  a  laugh  worthy  of  the  mad-scene 
in  Lucia.  "Listen  well."  Again  he  embraced 
the  unresisting  Seraphin.  "This  night  we  dine 
here;  we  make  a  collation — a  symposium:  we 
feed  both  our  bodies  and  our  souls.  I  shall  sit 
at  the  head  of  the  table  in  the  little  room  on 
the  first  floor,  and  you  will  sit  at  the  foot. 
Armand  Gamier  will  read  his  new  poem;  De- 
vignes  will  sing  my  latest  song;  Philippe  Vara- 
chon  and  you  will  discourse  on  your  arts;  and 
I — perhaps  I  shall  let  you  persuade  me  to  play 
the  fugue  that  I  go  to  write  for  the  death  of  the 
President:  it  is  all  but  ready  against  the  day 
that  a  president  chooses  to  die." 


46  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

But  Seraphin's  thoughts  were  fixed  on  the 
food  for  the  body. 

"You  make  no  jest  with  me,  Maurice*?" 

"Jest  with  you?  I  jest  with  you?  No,  my 
friend.  I  do  not  jest  when  I  invite  a  guest  to 
dine  with  me." 

"I  comprehend,"  said  Dieudonne;  "but  who 
is  to  be  the  host?" 

At  that  question,  Pasbeaucoup  rose  from  his 
chair,  and  Madame,  his  wife,  tried  to  thrust  her 
nose,  which  was  too  short  to  reach,  through  the 
bars  of  her  cage.  The  composer  struck  a  chord 
on  his  breast  and  bowed. 

"True:  the  host,"  said  he.  "I  had  forgotten. 
I  have  found  a  veritable  patron  of  my  art.  He 
has  had  the  room  above  mine  for  two  years, 
and  I  did  not  once  before  suspect  him.  He  is 
an  American  of  the  United  States." 

Madame's  contralto  shook  her  prison  bars: 

"There  is  no  American  that  can  appreciate 
art." 

"True,  Madame,"  admitted  Houdon,  bowing 
profoundly;  "there  is  no  American  that  can  ap- 


THE  NEST  OF  THE  TWO  DOVES    47 

preciate  art,  and  there  is  no  American  mil 
lionaire  that  can  help  patronizing  it." 

"Eh,  he  is  a  millionaire,  then,  this  American?' 
demanded  Madame,  audibly  mollified. 

"He  has  that  honor." 

"And  his  name?" — Madame  wanted  to  make 
a  memorandum  of  that  name. 

Houdon  struck  another  chord.  It  was  as  if 
he  were  sounding  a  fanfare  for  the  entrance  of 
his  hero. 

"Charles  Cartaret."  He  pronounced  the  first 
name  in  the  French  fashion  and  the  second 
name  "Cartarette." 

Seraphin's  reply  to  this  announcement  rather 
spoiled  its  effect.  He  laughed,  and  his  laughter 
was  high  and  mocking. 

"Cartaret !"  he  cried.  "Charlie  Cartaret!  But 
I  know  him  well." 

"Eh*?" — The  composer  was  reproachful — 
"And  you  never  presented  him  to  me?" 

"It  never  happened  that  you  were  by." 

"My  faith!  Why  should  I  be?  Am  I  not 
Houdon?  You  should  have  brought  him  to  me. 


48  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

Is  it  that  you  at  the  same  time  consider  yourself 
my  friend  and  do  not  bring  to  me  your  mil 
lionaire*?" 

Seraphin's  laughter  waxed. 

"But  he  is  not  my  millionaire:  he  is  your 
millionaire  only.  I  know  well  that  he  is  as 
poor  as  we  are." 

The  musician's  imaginary  melody  ceased:  one 
could  almost  hear  it  cease.  He  gazed  at  Sera- 
phin  as  he  might  have  gazed  at  a  madman. 

"But  that  room  rents  for  a  hundred  francs 
a  month !" 

"He  is  in  debt  for  it." 

"And  his  name  is  that  of  a  rich  American 
well  known." 

"An  uncle  who  does  not  like  him." 

"And  he  has  offered  to  provide  this  collation." 

Seraphin  shrugged. 

"M.  Cartaret's  credit,"  said  he,  with  a  glance 
at  Madame,  "seems  to  be  better  than  mine.  I 
tell  you  he  is  only  a  young  art-student,  enough 
genteel,  and  the  relation  of  a  man  enough  rich, 
but  for  himself — poof! — he  is  one  of  us." 


CHAPTER  III 

X 

IN    WHICH    A    FOOL    AND    HIS    MONEY   ARE    SOON 
PARTED 

Money's  the  still  sweet-singing  nightingale. — Herrick: 
Hesperides. 

SERAPHIN  DIEUDONNE  told  the  truth:  at  that 
moment  Charlie  Cartaret — for  all  this,  remem 
ber,  preceded  the  coming  of  the  Vision — at 
that  moment  Cartaret  was  seated  in  his  room 
in  the  rue  du  Val-de-Grace,  wondering  how  he 
was  to  find  his  next  month's  rent.  His  trouble 
was  that  he  had  just  sold  a  picture,  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  and,  having  sold  it,  he  had 
rashly  engaged  to  celebrate  that  good  fortune  by  a 
feast  which  would  leave  him  with  only  enough 
to  buy  meals  for  the  ensuing  three  weeks. 

He  was  a  rather  fine-looking,  upstanding 
young  fellow  of  a  type  essentially  American. 
In  the  days,  not  long  distant,  when  the  goal  at 

49 


50  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

the  other  end  of  the  gridiron  had  been  the  only 
goal  of  his  ambition,  he  had  put  hard  muscles 
on  his  hardy  frame ;  later  he  had  learned  to  shoot 
in  Arizona;  and  he  even  now  would  have 
looked  more  at  home  along  Broadway  or  Hal- 
sted  Street  than  he  did  in  the  rue  St.  Jacques 
or  the  Boulevard  St.  Michel.  He  was  tow- 
haired  and  brown-eyed  and  clean-shaven;  he 
was  generally  hopeful,  which  is  another  way  of 
saying  that  he  was  still  upon  the  flowered  slope 
of  twenty-five. 

Cartaret  had  inherited  his  excellent  constitu 
tion,  but  his  family  all  suffered  from  one  dis 
ease:  the  disease  of  too  much  money  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  house.  When  oil  was  found 
in  Ohio,  it  was  found  in  land  belonging  to  his 
father's  brother,  but  Charlie's  father  remained 
a  poor  lawyer  to  the  end  of  his  days.  Uncle 
Jack  had  children  of  his  own  and  a  deserved 
reputation  for  holding  on  to  his  pennies.  He 
sent  his  niece  to  a  finishing-school,  where  she 
could  be  properly  prepared  for  that  state  of  life 
to  which  it  had  not  pleased  Heaven  to  call  her, 


A  FOOL  AND  HIS  MONEY         51 

and  he  sent  his  nephew  to  college.  When  the 
former  child  was  finished,  he  found  her  a  place 
as  companion  to  an  ancient  widow  in  Toledo 
and  dismissed  her  from  his  thoughts;  when 
Charlie  was  through  with  college — which  is  to 
say,  when  the  faculty  was  through  with  him 
for  endeavoring  to  plant  a  fraternity  in  a  plot 
of  academic  soil  that  forbade  the  seed  of  Greek- 
letter  societies — he  asked  him  what  he  intended 
to  do  now — and  asked  it  in  a  t;one  that  plainly 
meant : 

"What  further  disgrace  are  you  planning  to 
bring  upon  our  name*?" 

Charlie  replied  that  he  wanted  to  be  an  artist. 

"I  might  have  guessed  it,"  said  his  uncle. 
"How  long'll  it  take?" 

Young  Cartaret,  knowing  something  about  art, 
had  not  the  slightest  idea. 

"Well,"  said  the  by-product  of  petroleum,  "if 
you've  got  to  be  an  artist,  be  one  as  far  away 
from  New  York  as  you  can.  They  say  Paris  is 
the  best  place  to  learn  the  business." 

"It  is  one  of  the  best  places,"  said  Charlie. 


52  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

The  elder  Cartaret  wrote  a  check. 

"Take  a  boat  to-morrow,"  he  ordered.  "I'll 
pay  your  board  and  tuition  for  two  years:  that's 
time  enough  to  learn  any  business.  After  two 
years  you'll  have  to  make  out  for  yourself." 

So  Charlie  had  worked  hard  for  two  years. 
That  period  ended  a  week  ago,  and  his  uncle's 
checks  ended  with  it.  He  had  stayed  on  and 
hoped.  To-day  he  had  carried  a  picture  through 
the  rain  to  Seraphin's  benefactor,  the  dealer 
Fourget ;  and  the  soft-hearted  Fourget  had  bought 
it.  Cartaret,  on  his  return,  met  Houdon  in  the 
lower  hall  and  before  the  American  was  well 
aware  of  it,  he  was  pledged  to  the  feast  of 
which  Maurice  was  bragging  to  Dieudonne. 

Charlie  dug  into  his  pocket  and  fished  out  all 
that  was  in  it:  a  matter  of  two  hundred  and 
ten  francs.  He  counted  it  twice  over. 

"No  use,"  he  said.  "I  can't  make  it  any 
larger.  I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  take  a  smaller 
room." 

Certainly  there  was  more  room  here  than  he 
wanted,  but  he  had  grown  to  love  the  place: 


A  FOOL  AND  HIS  MONEY          53 

even  then,  when  he  had  still  to  see  it  in  the 
rose-pink  twilight  of  romance,  in  the  afterglow 
that  was  a  dawn — even  then,  before  the  appari 
tion  of  the  strange  Lady — he  loved  it  as  his 
sort  of  man  must  love  the  scenes  of  those 
struggles  which  have  left  him  poor.  Its  front 
windows  opened  upon  the  street  full  of  student- 
life  and  gossip,  its  rear  windows  looked  on  a 
little  garden  that  was  pretty  with  the  con 
cierge's  flowers  all  Summer  long  and  merry  with 
the  laughter  of  the  concierge's  children  on  every 
fair  day  the  whole  year  round.  The  light  was 
good  enough,  the  location  excellent;  the  service 
was  no  worse  than  the  service  in  any  similar 
house  in  Paris. 

"But  I  have  been  a  fool,"  said  Cartaret. 

He  looked  again  at  his  money,  and  then  he 
looked  again  about  the  room.  The  difference 
between  a  fool  and  a  mere  dilettante  in  folly  is 
this:  that  the  latter  knows  his  folly  as  he  in 
dulges  it,  whereas  the  former  recognizes  it,  if 
ever,  only  too  late. 


54  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"If  I'd  been  able  to  study  for  only  one  year 
more,"  he  said. 

It  was  the  wail  of  retrospection  that,  sooner 
or  later,  every  man,  each  in  his  own  way  and 
according  to  his  chances  and  his  character  for 
seizing  them,  is  bound  to  utter.  It  was  what 
we  all  say  and  what,  in  saying,  we  each  think 
unique.  Happy  he  that  says  it,  and  means  it, 
in  time  to  profit! 

"Yes,"  said  Cartaret,  "I've  been  a  fool.  But 
I  won't  be  a  quitter,"  he  added.  "I'll  go  and 
order  that  dinner." 

Thus  Charles  Cartaret  in  the  afternoon. 

He  had  put  on  a  battered,  broad-brimmed 
hat  of  soft  black  felt,  which  was  picturesquely 
out  of  place  above  his  American  features,  and  a 
still  more  battered  English  rain-coat,  which  did 
not  at  all  belong  with  the  hat,  and,  thus  forti 
fied  against  the  rain,  he  hurried  into  the  hall. 
As  he  closed  the  door  of  his  studio  behind  him, 
he  fancied  that  he  heard  a  sound  from  the 
room  across  from  his  own,  and  so  stood  listen 
ing,  his  hand  upon  the  knob. 


A  FOOL  AND  HIS  MONEY          55 

"That's  queer,"  he  reflected.  "I  thought  that 
room  was  still  to  let." 

He  listened  a  moment  longer,  but  the  sound, 
if  sound  there  had  been,  was  not  repeated,  so 
he  pulled  his  hat-brim  over  his  eyes  and  de 
scended  to  the  street. 

The  rain  had  lessened,  but  the  fog  held  on, 
and  the  thoroughfares  were  wet  and  dismal. 
Cartaret  cut  down  the  rue  du  Val-de-Grace  to 
the  Avenue  de  Luxembourg  and  through  the 
gardens  with  their  dripping  statues  and  around 
the  museum,  whence  he  crossed  to  the  sheltered 
way  between  those  bookstalls  that  cling  like  ivy 
to  the  walls  of  the  Odeon,  and  so,  by  the  steep 
descent  of  the  rue  de  Tournon  and  the  rue  de  Seine, 
came  to  the  rue  Jacob  and  the  Cafe  Des  Deux 
Colombes. 

Seraphin  and  Maurice  were  still  there.  They 
received  him  as  their  separate  natures  dictated, 
the  former  with  a  restrained  dignity,  the  lat 
ter  with  the  dignity  of  a  monarch  so  secure  of 
his  title  that  he  can  afford  to  condescend  to  an 
air  of  democracy.  Seraphin  bowed;  Maurice 


56  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

embraced  and,  embracing,  tapped  the  diatonic 
scale  along  Cartaret's  vertebrae.  Pasbeaucoup, 
in  trembling  obedience  to  a  cryptic  nod  from 
the  caged  Madame,  hovered  in  the  background. 

"I  have  come,"  said  Cartaret,  whose  French 
was  the  easy  and  inaccurate  French  of  the 
American  art-student,  "to  order  that  dinner." 
He  half  turned  to  Pasbeaucoup,  but  Houdon 
was  before  him. 

"It  is  done,"  announced  the  musician,  as  if 
announcing  a  favor  performed.  "I  have  re 
lieved  you  of  that  tedium.  We  are  to  begin 
with  an  hors-d'oeuvre  of  anchovies  and " 

Madame  had  again  nodded,  this  time  less 
cryptically  and  more  violently,  at  her  husband, 
and  Pasbeaucoup,  between  twin  terrors,  timidly 
suggested : 

"Monsieur  Cartaret  comprehends  that  it  is 
only  because  of  the  so  high  cost  of  necessities 
that  it  is  necessary  for  us  to  request " 

He  stopped  there,  but  the  voice  from  the 
cage  boomed  courageously: 

"The  payment  in  advance!" 


A  FOOL  AND  HIS  MONEY          57 

"A  custom  of  the  establishment,"  explained 
Houdon  grandly,  but  shooting  a  venomous  glance 
in  the  direction  of  Madame. 

Seraphin  came  quietly  from  behind  his  table 
and,  slipping  a  thin  arm  through  Cartaret's, 
drew  him,  to  the  speechless  amazement  of  the 
other  participants  in  this  scene,  toward  the  far 
thest  corner  of  the  cafe. 

"My  friend,"  he  whispered,  "you  must  not  do 
it." 

"Eh?"  said  Cartaret.  "Why  not?  It's  a 
queer  thing  to  be  asked,  but  why  shouldn't  I 
do  it?" 

Seraphin  hesitated.  Then,  regaining  the  con 
quest  over  self,  he  put  his  lips  so  close  to  the 
American's  ear  that  the  Frenchman's  wagging 
wisps  of  whisker  tickled  his  auditor's  cheek. 

"This  Houdon  is  but  a  pleasant  coqmn,"  he 
confided.  "He  will  suck  from  you  the  last  sou's 
worth  of  your  blood." 

Cartaret  smiled  grimly. 

"He  won't  get  a  fortune  by  it,"  he  said. 

"That  is  why  I  do  not  wish  him  to  do  it: 


58  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

I  know  well  that  you  cannot  afford  these  little 
dissipations.  I  do  not  wish  to  see  my  friend 
swindled  by  false  friendship.  Houdon  is  a  good 
boy,  but,  Name  of  a  Name,  he  has  the  conscience 
of  a  pig!" 

"All  right,"  said  Cartaret  suddenly,  for  Sera- 
phin  was  appealing  to  a  sense  of  economy  still 
fresh  enough  to  be  sensitive,  "since  he's  ordered 
the  dinner,  we'll  let  him  pay  for  it." 

"Alas,"  declared  Dieudonne,  sadly  shaking  his 
long  hair,  "poor  Maurice  has  not  the  money." 

"Oh!" — A  gleam  of  gratitude  lighted  Car- 
taret's  blue  eyes — "Then  you  are  proposing  that 
you  do  it?" 

"My  friend,"  inquired  Seraphin,  flinging  out 
his  arms  as  a  man  flings  out  his  arms  to  invite 
a  search  of  his  pockets,  "you  know  me:  how 
can  I?" 

Cartaret  blushed  at  his  ineptitude.  He  knew 
Dieudonne  well  enough  to  have  been  aware  of 
his  poverty  and  liked  him  well  enough  to  be 
tender  toward  it.  "But,"  he  nevertheless  pardon- 


A  FOOL  AND  HIS  MONEY         59 

ably  inquired,  "if  that's  the  way  the  thing  stands, 
who's  to  pay*?  One  of  the  other  guests'?" 

"We  are  all  of  the  same  financial  ability." 

"Then  I  don't  see  " 

"Nor  do  I.  And" — Seraphin's  high  resolu 
tion  clattered  suddenly  about  his  ears — "after 
all,  the  dinner  has  been  ordered,  and  I  am  very 
hungry.  My  friend,"  he  concluded  with  a  happy 
return  of  his  dignity,  "at  least  I  have  done  you 
this  service:  you  will  buy  the  dinner,  but  you 
will  not  both  buy  it  and  be  deceived." 

Cartaret  turned,  with  a  smile  no  longer  grim, 
to  the  others. 

"Seraphin,"  he  said,  "has  persuaded  me. 
Madame,  Vaddition^  if  you  please." 

Pasbeaucoup  trotted  to  the  cage,  bringing 
back  to  Cartaret  the  long  slip  of  paper  that 
Madame  had  ready  for  him.  Cartaret  glanced 
at  only  the  total  and,  though  he  flushed  a  little, 
paid  without  comment. 

"And  now,"  suggested  Houdon,  "now  let  us 
play  a  little  game  of  dominoes." 

Seraphin,     from     the     musician's     shoulder, 


60  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

frowned  hard  at  Cartaret,  but  Cartaret  was  in 
no  mood  to  heed  the  warning.  He  was  angry 
at  himself  for  his  extravagance  and  decided  that, 
having  been  such  a  fool  as  to  fling  away  a  great 
deal  of  his  money,  he  might  now  as  well  be  a 
greater  fool  and  fling  it  all  away.  Besides,  he 
might  be  able  to  win  from  Houdon,  and,  even 
if  Houdon  could  not  pay,  there  would  be  the 
satisfaction  of  revenge.  So  he  sat  down  at  one 
of  the  marble-topped  tables  and  began,  with  a 
great  clatter,  to  shuffle  the  dominoes  that  obse 
quious  Pasbeaucoup  hurriedly  fetched.  Within 
two  hours,  Seraphin  was  head  over  ears  in  the 
musician's  debt,  and  the  American  was  paying 
into  Houdon's  palm  all  but  about  ten  francs 
of  the  money  that  he  had  so  recently  earned. 
He  rose  smilingly. 

"You  do  not  go*?"  inquired  Houdon. 

Cartaret  nodded. 

"But  the  dinner4?" 

"Don't  you  worry;  I'll  be  back  for  that — 
I  don't  know  when  I'll  get  another." 

"Then    permit    me,"    Houdon    condescended, 


A  FOOL  AND  HIS  MONEY         61 

"to  order  a  bock.  For  the  three  of  us."  He 
generously  included  the  hungry  Seraphin.  "Come, 
we  shall  drink  to  your  better  fortune  next 
time." 

But  Cartaret  excused  himself.  He  said  that 
he  had  an  engagement  with  a  dealer,  which  was 
not  true,  and  which  was  understood  to  be  false, 
and  he  went  into  the  street. 

The  last  of  the  rain,  unnoticed  during  Car- 
taret's  fevered  play,  had  passed,  and  a  red  Feb 
ruary  sun  was  setting  across  the  Seine,  behind 
the  higher  ground  that  lies  between  L'Etoile  and 
the  Place  du  Trocadero.  The  river  was  hidden 
by  the  point  of  land  that  ends  in  the  Quai 
D'Orsay,  but,  as  Cartaret  crossed  the  broad  rue 
de  Vaugirard,  he  could  see  the  golden  after 
glow  and,  silhouetted  against  it,  the  high  fila 
ments  of  the  Eiffel  Tower. 

What  an  ass  he  had  been,  he  bitterly  re 
flected,  as  he  passed  again  through  the  Luxem 
bourg  Gardens,  where  now  the  statues  glistened 
in  the  fading  light  of  the  dying  afternoon.  What 
a  mad  ass!  If  a  single  stroke  of  almost  pa- 


02  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

thetically  small  good  luck  made  such  a  fool  of 
him,  it  was  as  well  that  his  uncle  and  not  his 
father  had  come  into  a  fortune. 

His  thought  went  back  with  a  new  tender 
ness  to  his  father  and  to  his  own  and  his  sister 
Cora's  early  life  in  that  small  Ohio  town.  He 
had  hated  the  dull  routine  and  narrow  conven 
tionality  of  the  place.  There  the  most  daring 
romance  of  youth  had  been  to  walk  with  the 
daughter  of  a  neighbor  along  the  shaded  streets 
in  the  Summer  evenings,  and  to  hang  over  the 
gate  to  the  front  yard  of  the  house  in  which 
she  lived,  tremblingly  hinting  at  a  delicious 
tenderness,  which  one  never  dared  more  ade 
quately  to  express,  until  a  threatening  parental 
voice  called  the  girl  to  shelter.  His  life,  since 
those  days,  had  been  more  stirring,  and  some 
times  more  to  be  regretted;  but  he  had  loved  it 
and  thought  it  absurd  sentiment  on  Cora's  part 
to  insist  that  their  tiny  income  go  to  keeping 
up  the  little  property — the  three-story  brick 
house  and  wide  front  and  back-yard  along  Main 
Street — which  had  been  their  home.  Yet  now 


A  FOOL  AND  HIS  MONEY         63 

he  fek,  and  was  half  ashamed  of  feeling,  a 
strong  desire  to  go  back  there,  a  pull  at  his 
heartstrings  for  a  return  to  all  that  he  was  once 
so  anxious  to  quit  forever. 

He  wondered  if  it  could  be  possible  that  he 
was  tired  of  Paris.  He  even  wondered  if  it 
were  possible  that  he  could  not  be  a  successful 
artist — he  had  never  wanted  to  be  a  rich  one — 
whether  the  sensible  course  would  not  be  to 
go  home  and  study  law  while  there  was  yet 
time.  .  .  . 

And  then 

Then,  in  the  rose-pink  twilight,  the  beginning 
of  the  Dream  Wonderful:  that  scent  of  the 
roses  from  the  sky;  that  quick  memory  of  sun 
light  upon  snow-crests;  that  first  revelation  of 
the  celestial  Lady  transfiguring  the  earthly  com 
monplace  of  his  room ! 


CHAPTER  IV 

A    DAMSEL    IN    DISTRESS 

.  .  .  .Adowne 

They  prayd  him  sit,  and  gave  him  for  to  feed. — 
Spenser :  Faerie  Queene. 

CHARLIE  CARTARET  would  have  told  you — 
indeed,  he  frequently  did  tell  his  friends — that 
the  mere  fact  of  a  man  being  an  artist  was 
no  proof  that  he  lacked  in  the  uncommon  sense 
commonly  known  as  common.  Cartaret  was 
quite  insistent  upon  this  and,  as  evidence  in 
favor  of  his  contention,  he  was  accustomed  to 
point  to  C.  Cartaret,  Esq.  He,  said  Cartaret, 
was  at  once  an  artist  and  a  practical  man:  it 
was  wholly  impossible,  for  instance,  to  imagine 
him  capable  of  any  silly  romance. 

Nevertheless,  when  left  alone  in  his  room  by 
the  departure  of  the  Lady  on  that  February 

evening,  he  sat  for  a  long  time  with  the  strange 

64 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS  65 

rose  between  his  fingers  and  a  strange  look  in  his 
eyes.  He  regarded  the  rose  until  the  last  ray  of 
light  had  altogether  faded  from  the  West.  Only 
then  did  he  recall  that  he  had  invited  sundry 
persons  to  dine  with  him  at  the  Cafe  Des  Deux 
Colombes,  and  when  he  had  made  ready  to  go  to 
them,  the  rose  was  still  in  his  reluctant  hand. 

Cartaret  looked  about  him  stealthily.  He  had 
been  in  the  room  for  some  hours  and  he  should 
have  been  thoroughly  aware  that  he  was  alone 
in  it;  but  he  looked,  as  all  guilty  men  do,  to 
right  and  left  to  make  sure.  Then,  like  a 
naughty  child,  he  turned  his  back  to  the  street- 
window. 

He  stood  thus  a  bare  instant,  yet  in  that 
instant  his  hand  first  raised  something  toward 
his  lips,  and  then  bestowed  that  same  some 
thing  somewhere  inside  his  waistcoat,  a  consider 
able  distance  from  his  heart,  but  directly  over 
the  rib  beneath  which  ill-informed  people  be 
lieve  the  heart  to  be.  This  accomplished,  he 
exhibited  a  rigorously  practical  face  to  the  room 


66  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

and  swaggered  out  of  it,  ostentatiously  humming 
a  misogynistic  drinking-song: 

"There's  nothing,  friend,  'twixt  you  and  me 
Except  the  best  of  company. 

(There's  just  one  bock  'twixt  you  and  me, 

and  I'll  catch  up  full  soon!) 
What  woman's  lips  compare  to  this: 
This  sturdy  seidel's  frothy  kiss " 

Armand  Gamier,  one  of  the  men  that  were 
to  dine  with  Cartaret  to-night,  had  written  the 
words  of  which  this  is  a  free  translation,  and 
Houdon  had  composed  the  air — he  composed  it 
impromptu  for  Devignes  over  an  absinthe,  after 
laboring  upon  it  in  secret  for  an  entire  week — 
but  Cartaret,  when  he  reached  the  note  that 
stood  for  the  last  word  here  given,  came  to  an 
abrupt  stop;  he  was  facing  the  door  of  the  room 
opposite  his  own.  He  continued  facing  it  for 
quite  a  minute,  but  he  heard  nothing. 

"M.  Refrogne,"  he  said,  when  he  thrust  his 
head  int©  the  concierge's  box  downstairs,  "if — * 
er — if  anybody  should  inquire  for  me  this  even- 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS  67 

ing,  you  will  please  tell  them  that  I  am  dining  at 
the  Cafe  Des  Deux  Colombes." 

Nothing  could  be  seen  in  the  concierge's  box, 
but  from  it  came  a  grunt  that  might  have  been 
either  assent  or  dissent. 

"Yes,"  said  Cartaret,  "in  the  rue  Jacob." 

Again  the  ambiguous  grunt. 

"Exactly,"  Cartaret  agreed;  "the  Cafe  Des 
Deux  Colombes,  in  the  rue  Jacob,  close  by  the 
rue  Bonaparte.  You — you're  quite  sure  you 
won't  forget?' 

The  grunt  changed  to  an  ugly  chuckle,  and, 
after  the  chuckle,  an  ugly  voice  said: 

"Monsieur  expects  something  unusual:  he  ex 
pects  an  evening  visitor1?" 

"Confound  it,  no!"  snapped  Cartaret.  He 
had  been  wildly  hoping  that  perhaps  The  Girl 
might  need  some  aid  or  direction  that  evening 
and  might  seek  it  of  him.  "Not  at  all,"  he 
pursued,  "but  you  see— " 

"How  then*?"  inquired  the  voice. 

Cartaret's  hand  went  to  his  pocket  and  drew 


68  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

forth  one  of  the  few  franc-pieces  that  remained 
there. 

"Just,  please,  remember  what  I've  said,"  he 
requested. 

In  the  darkness  of  the  box  into  which  it  was 
extended,  his  hand  was  grasped  by  a  larger 
and  rougher  hand,  and  the  franc  was  deftly 
extracted. 

"Merci,  monsieur" 

A  barely  appreciable  softening  of  the  tone  en 
couraged  Cartaret.  He  balanced  himself  from 
foot  to  foot  and  asked: 

"Those  people — the  ones,  you  understand,  that 
have  rented  the  room  opposite  mine?" 

Refrogne  understood  but  truly. 

"Well — in  short,  who  are  they,  monsieur?" 

"Who  knows?"  asked  Refrogne  in  the  dark 
ness.  Cartaret  could  feel  him  shrug. 

"I  rather  thought  you  might,"  he  ventured. 

The  darkness  was  silent;  a  good  concierge 
answers  questions,  not  general  statements. 

"Where — don't  you  know  where  they  come 
from?" 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS  69 

There  was  speech  once  more.  Refrogne,  it 
said,  neither  knew  nor  cared.  In  the  rue  du 
Val  de  Grace  people  continually  came  and  went 
— all  manner  of  people  from  all  manner  of 
places — so  long  as  they  paid  their  rent,  it  was 
no  concern  of  Refrogne's.  For  all  the  informa 
tion  that  he  possessed,  the  two  people  of  whom 
monsieur  inquired  might  be  natives  of  Cochin- 
China.  Mademoiselle  evidently  wanted  to  be 
an  artist,  as  scores  of  other  young  women,  and 
Madame,  her  guardian  and  sole  companion,  evi 
dently  wanted  Mademoiselle  to  be  nothing  at 
all.  There  were  but  two  of  them,  thank  God! 
The  younger  spoke  much  French  with  an  accent 
terrible;  the  elder  understood  French,  but  spoke 
only  some  pig  of  a  language  that  no  civilized  man 
could  comprehend.  That  was  all  that  Refrogne 
had  to  tell. 

Cartaret  went  on  toward  the  scene  of  his  din 
ner-party.  He  wished  he  did  not  have  to  go. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  was  sure  he  had  thrown 
Refrogne  a  franc  to  no  purpose :  the  Lady  of  the 
Rose  was  little  likely  to  seek  him!  He  found 


70  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

the  evening  cold  and  his  raincoat  inadequate. 
He  began  humming  the  drinking-song  again. 

They  were  singing  it  outright,  in  a  full  chorus, 
when  he  entered  the  little  room  on  the  first  floor 
of  the  Cafe  Des  Deux  Colombes.  The  table  was 
already  spread,  the  feast  already  started.  The 
unventilated  room  was  flooded  with  light  and 
full  of  the  steam  of  hot  viands.  ^ 

Maurice  Houdon,  his  red  cheeks  shining,  his 
black  mustache  stiffly  waxed,  sat  at  the  head 
of  the  table  as  he  had  promised  to  do,  perform 
ing  the  honors  with  a  regal  grace  and  playing 
imaginary  themes  with  every  flourish  of  address 
to  every  guest:  a  different  theme  for  each.  On 
his  right  was  a  vacant  place,  the  sole  apparent 
reference  to  the  host  of  the  evening;  on  his  left, 
Armand  Gamier,  the  poet,  very  thin  and  cadaver 
ous,  with  long  dank  locks  and  tangled  beard,  his 
skin  waxen,  his  lantern-jaw  emitting  no  words, 
but  working  lustily  upon  the  food.  Next  to  Car- 
taret's  place  bobbed  the  pear-shaped  Devignes, 
leading  the  chorus,  as  became  the  only  profes 
sional  singer  in  the  company.  Across  from  him 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS  71 

was  Philippe  Varachon,  the  sculptor,  whose  nose 
always  reminded  Carteret  of  an  antique  and  long 
lost  bit  of  statuary,  badly  damaged  in  exhuma 
tion;  and  at  the  foot  Seraphin  was  seated,  the 
first  to  note  Cartaret's  arrival  and  the  only  one 
to  apologize  for  not  having  delayed  the  dinner. 

He  got  up  immediately,  and  his  whiskers 
tickled  the  American's  cheek  with  the  whisper: 

"It  was  ready  to  serve,  and  Madame  swore 
that  it  would  perish.  My  faith,  what  would 
you?" 

Pasbeaucoup  was  darting  among  the  guests, 
wiping  fresh  plates  with  a  napkin  and  his  drip 
ping  forehead  with  his  bare  hand.  Cartaret  felt 
certain  that  the  little  man  would  soon  confuse 
the  functions  of  the  two. 

"Ah-h-h!"  cried  Houdon.  He  rose  from  his 
place  and  endeavored  to  restore  order  by  beating 
with  a  fork  upon  an  empty  tumbler,  as  an  or 
chestral  conductor  taps  his  baton — at  the  same 
time  nodding  fiercely  at  Pasbeaucoup  to  refill 
the  tumbler  with  red  wine.  He  was  the  sole  mem 
ber  of  the  company  not  long  known  to  their  host, 


72  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

but  he  said:  "Messieurs,  I  have  the  happiness 
to  present  to  you  our  distinguished  American 
fellow-student,  M.  Charles  Cartare/te.  Be  seated 
among  us,  M.  Cartarette,"  he  graciously  added; 
"pray  be  seated." 

Cartaret  sat  down  in  the  place  kindly  reserved 
for  him,  and  the  interruption  of  his  appearance 
was  so  politely  forgotten  that  he  wished  he  had 
not  been  such  a  fool  as  to  make  it.  The  song 
was  resumed.  It  was  not  until  the  salad  was 
served  and  Pasbeaucoup  had  retired  below-stairs 
to  assist  in  preparing  the  coffee,  that  Houdon 
turned  again  to  Cartaret  and  executed  what  was 
clearly  to  be  the  Cartaret  theme. 

"We  had  despaired  of  your  arrival,  Monsieur," 
said  he. 

Cartaret  said  he  had  observed  signs  of  some 
thing  of  the  sort. 

"Truly,"  nodded  Houdon.  His  tongue  rolled 
a  ball  of  salad  into  his  cheek  and  out  of  the 
track  of  speech.  "Doubtless  you  had  the  one 
living  excuse,  however." 

"I  don't  follow  you,"  said  Cartaret. 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS  73 

Houdon  leered.  His  fingers  performed  on  the 
table-cloth  something  that  might  have  been  the 
motif  of  Isolde. 

"I  have  heard,"  said  he,  "your  American  prov 
erb  that  there  are  but  two  adequate  excuses 
for  tardiness  at  dinner — death  and  a  lady — 
and  I  am  charmed,  monsieur,  to  observe  that 
you  are  altogether  alive." 

If  Cartaret's  glance  indicated  that  he  would 
like  to  throttle  the  composer,  Cartaret's  glance 
did  not  misinterpret. 

"We  won't  discuss  that,  if  you  please,"  said 
he. 

But  Houdon  was  incapable  of  understanding 
such  glances  in  such  a  connection.  He  tapped 
for  the  attention  of  his  orchestra  and  got  it. 

"Messieurs,"  he  announced,  "our  good  friend 
of  the  America  of  the  North  has  been  having  an 
adventure." 

Everybody  looked  at  Cartaret  and  everybody 
smiled. 

"Delicious,"  squeaked  Varachon  through  his 
broken  nose. 


74  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"Superb,"  trilled  the  pear-shaped  singer  De- 
vignes. 

Garnier's  lantern-jaws  went  on  eating.  Sera- 
phin  Dieudonne  caught  Cartaretfs  glance  im 
ploringly  and  then  shifted,  in  ineffectual  warn 
ing,  to  Houdon. 

"But  that  was  only  what  was  to  be  expected, 
my  children,"  the  musician  continiied.  "What 
can  we  poor  Frenchmen  look  for  when  a  blond 
Hercules  of  an  American  comes,  rkh  and  hand 
some,  to  our  dear  Paris  *?  Only  to-day  I  observed, 
renting  an  abode  in  the  house  that  Monsieur  and 
I  have  the  honor  to  share,  a  young  mademoiselle, 
the  most  gracious  and  beautiful,  accompanied 
by  a  tuteur,  the  most  ferocious ;  and  I  noted  well 
that  they  went  to  inhabit  the  room  but  across  the 
landing  from  that  of  M.  Cartarette.  Behold  all ! 
At  once  I  said  to  myself:  'Alas,  how  long  will 
it  be  before  this  confiding ' ' 

He  stopped  short  and  looked  at  Cartaret,  for 
Cartaret  had  grasped  the  performing  hand  of 
the  composer  and,  in  a  steady  grip,  forced  it 
quietly  to  the  table. 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS  75 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Cartaret,  gently,  "that  I 
don't  care  to  have  you  talk  in  this  strain." 

"How  then?"  blustered  the  amazed  musician. 

"If  you  go  on,"  Cartaret  warned  him,  "you  will 
have  to  go  on  from  the  floor;  I'll  knock  you 
there." 

"Maurice!"  cried  Seraphih,  rising  from  his 
chair. 

"Messieurs!"  piped  Devignes. 

Varachon  growled  at  Houdon,  and  Gamier 
reached  for  a  water-bottle  as  the  handiest  weapon 
of  defense.  Houdon  and  Cartaret  were  facing 
each  other,  erect,  each  waiting  for  the  other  to 
make  a  further  move,  the  former  red,  the  latter 
white,  with  anger.  There  followed  that  flash 
ing  pause  of  quiet  which  is  the  precursor  of 
battle. 

The  battle,  however,  was  not  forthcoming. 
Instead,  through  the  silence,  there  came  a  roar 
of  voices  that  diverted  the  attention  of  even 
the  chief  combatants.  It  was  a  roar  of  voices 
from  the  cafe  below:  a  heavy  rumble  that  was 
unmistakably  Madame's  and  a  clatter  of  unin- 


76  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

telligible  shrieks  and  demands  that  were  feminine 
but  unclassifiable.  Now  one  voice  shouted  and 
next  the  other.  Then  the  two  joined  in  a 
mighty  explosion,  and  little  Pasbeaucoup  was 
shot  up  the  stairs  and  among  the  diners  as  if 
he  were  the  first  rock  from  the  crater  of  an 
emptying  volcano. 

He  staggered  against  the  table  and  jolted  the 
water-bottle  out  of  the  poet's  hand. 

"Name  of  a  Name!"  he  gasped.  "She  is  a 
veritable  tigress,  that  woman  there!" 

They  had  no  time  then  to  inquire  whom  he 
referred  to,  though  they  knew  that,  however 
justly  he  might  think  it,  he  would  never,  even 
in  terror  like  the  present,  say  such  a  thing  of 
his  wife.  The  words  were  no  sooner  free  of  his 
lips  than  a  larger  rock  was  vomited  from  the 
volcano,  and  a  still  larger,  the  largest  rock  of 
the  three,  came  immediately  after. 

Everybody  was  afoot  now.  They  saw  that 
Pasbeaucoup  cowered  against  the  wall  in  a  fear 
terrible  because  it  was  greater  than  his  fear  for 
Madame;  they  saw  that  Madame,  who  was  the 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS  77 

third  rock,  was  clinging  to  the  apron-strings  of 
another  woman,  who  was  rock  number  two,  and 
they  saw  that  this  other  woman  was  a  stocky 
figure,  who  carried  in  her  hand  a  curious,  wide 
head-dress,  and  who  wore  a  parti-colored  apron 
that  began  over  her  ample  breasts  and  ended 
by  brushing  against  her  equally  ample  boots,  and 
a  black  skirt  of  simple  stuff  and  extravagant 
puffs,  surmounted  by  a  short-skirted  blouse  or 
basque  of  the  same  material.  Her  face  was 
round  and  wrinkled  like  a  last  winter's  apple 
on  the  kitchen-shelf;  but  her  eyes  shone  red, 
her  hands  beat  the  air  vigorously,  and  from  her 
lips  poured  a  lusty  torrent  of  sounds  that  might 
have  been  protestations,  appeals  or  curses,  yet 
were  certainly,  considered  as  words,  nothing 
that  any  one  present  had  ever  heard  before. 

She  ran  forward;  Madame  ran  forward.  The 
stranger  shouldered  Madame;  Madame  dragged 
her  back.  The  stranger  cried  out  more  of  her 
alien  phrases;  Madame  shouted  French  denun 
ciations.  The  Gallic  diners  formed  a  grinning 
circle,  eager  to  lose  no  detail  of  the  sort  of 


78  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

wrangle  that  a  Frenchman  loves  best  to  watch: 
a  wrangle  between  women. 

Cartaret  made  his  way  through  the  ring  and 
put  his  hand  on  the  stranger's  shoulder.  She 
seemed  to  understand,  and  relapsed  into  quiet, 
attentive  but  alert. 

"Now,"  said  Cartaret,  "one  at  a  time,  please. 
Madame,  what  is  the  trouble1?" 

"Trouble1?"  roared  Madame.  Her  face  did 
not  change  expression,  but  she  held  her  arms 
akimbo,  pug-nose  and  strong  chin  poked  defi 
antly  at  the  strange  interloper.  "You  may  well 
say  it,  trouble!" 

She  put  her  position  strongly  and  at  length. 
She  had  been  in  the  caisse^  with  no  one  of  the 
world  in  the  cafe,  when,  crying  barbarous 
threats  incomprehensible,  this  she-bandit,  this — 
this  anarchiste  infdme,  had  burst  in  from  the 
street,  disrupting  the  peace  of  the  Deux  Colom- 
bes  and  endangering  its  well-known  quiet  repu 
tation  with  the  police. 

That  was  the  gist  of  it.  When  it  was  de 
livered,  Cartaret  faced  the  stranger. 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS  79 

"And  you,  Madame"?"  he  asked,  in  French. 

The  stranger  strode  forward  as  a  pugilist  steps 
from  his  corner  for  the  round  that  he  expects  to 
win  the  figfat  for  him.  She  clapped  her  wide 
head-dress  upon  her  head,  where  it  settled  itself 
with  a  rakish  tilt. 

"Holy  pipe!"  cried  Houdon.  "In  that  I  rec 
ognize  her.  It  is  the  ferocious  tuteur!" 

Cartaret's  interest  became  tense. 

"What  did  you  want  here?"  he  urged,  still 
speaking  French. 

The  stranger  said,  twice  over,  something  that 
sounded  like  "Kar-kar-tay." 

"She  is  mad,"  squeaked  Varachon. 

"She  is  worse;  she  is  German,"  vowed  Ma 
dame. 

Cartaret  rateed  his  hand  to  silence  these  con 
tentions. 

"Do  you  understand  me?"  he  urged. 

The  wide  head-dress  flapped  a  vehement  as 
sent. 

"But  you  can't  answer*?" 

The  head-dress  fluttered  a  negative,  and  the 


8o  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

mouth  mumbled  a  negative  in  a  French  so  thick, 
hesitant  and  broken  as  to  be  infinitely  less  ex 
pressive  than  the  shake  of  the  head. 

Cartaret  remembered  what  the  concierge  Re- 
frogne  had  told  him.  To  the  circle  of  curious 
people  he  explained: 

"She  can  understand  a  little  French,  but  she 
cannot  speak  it." 

Madame  snorted.  "Why  then  does  she  come 
to  this  place  so  respectable  if  she  cannot  talk 
like  a  Christian?" 

"Because,"  said  Cartaret,  "she  evidently 
thought  she  would  be  intelligently  treated." 

It  was  clear  to  him  that  she  would  not  have 
come  had  her  need  not  been  desperate.  He 
made  another  effort  to  discover  her  nationality. 

"Who  of  you  speaks  something  besides 
French?"  he  asked  of  the  company. 

Not  Madame;  not  Seraphin  or  Houdon:  they 
were  ardent  Parisians  and  of  course  knew  no 
language  but  their  own.  As  for  Gamier,  as  a 
French  poet  and  a  native  of  the  pure-tongued 
Tours,  he  would  not  have  soiled  his  lips  with 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS  81 

any  other  speech  had  he  known  another.  Vara- 
chon,  it  turned  out,  was  from  the  Jura,  and 
had  picked  up  a  little  Swiss-German  during  a 
youthful  liaison  at  Pontarlier.  He  tried  it  now, 
but  the  stranger  only  shook  her  head-dress  at 
him. 

"She  knows  no  German,"  said  Varachon. 

"Such  German!"  sniffed  Houdon. 

"Chut!  This  proves  rather  that  she  knows  it 
too  well,"  grumbled  Madame.  "She  but  wishes 
to  conceal  it;  probably  she  is  a  German  spy." 

Devignes  said  he  knew  Italian,  and  he  did 
seem  to  know  a  sort  of  Opera-Italian,  but  it,  too, 
was  useless. 

Cartaret  had  an  inspiration. 

"Spanish !"  he  suggested.  "Does  any  one  know 
any  Spanish4?" 

Pasbeaucoup  did;  he  knew  two  or  three 
phrases — chiefly  relating  to  prices  on  the  menu 
of  the  Deux  Colombes — but  to  him  also  the 
awful  woman  only  shook  her  head  in  ignorance. 

Cartaret  took  up  the  French  again. 


82  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"Can  you  not  tell  me  what  you  want  here1?" 
he  pleaded. 

"Kar-kar-tay,"   said  the  stranger. 

"Ah !"  cried  Seraphin,  clapping  his  hands. 
"Does  not  Houdon  say  that  she  makes  her  abode 
in  the  same  house  that  you  make  yours1?  She 
seeks  you,  monsieur.  'Kar-kar-tay,'  it  is  her 
manner  of  endeavoring  to  say  Cartar^/te." 

At  the  sound  of  that  name,  the  stranger 
nodded  hard. 

"Out,  om!"  she  cried. 

She  understood  that  her  chief  inquisitor  was 
Cartaret,  and  it  was  indeed  Cartaret  that  she 
sought.  She  flung  herself  on  her  knees  to  him. 
When  he  hurriedly  raised  her,  she  caught  at 
the  skirt  of  his  coat  and  nearly  pulled  it  from 
him  in  an  attempt  to  drag  him  to  the  stairs. 

Cartaret  looked  sharply  at  Houdon.  The  mu 
sician  having  been  so  recently  saved  from  the 
wrath  of  his  host,  was  momentarily  discreet: 
he  hid  his  smile  behind  one  of  the  thin  bands 
that  contrasted  so  sharply  with  his  plump  cheeks. 


A  DAMSEL  IN  DISTRESS  83 

"Messieurs,"  said  Cartaret,  "I  am  going  with 
this  lady." 

They  all  edged  forward. 

"And  I  am  going  alone,"  added  the  Ameri 
can.  "I  wish  you  good-night." 

"You  will  be  knifed  in  the  street,"  said 
Madame.  Her  tone  implied:  "And  it  will  serve 
you  right." 

None  of  the  others  seemed  to  mind  his  going; 
the  wrangle  over,  they  were  ready  for  their 
coffee  and  liqueurs.  Houdon  was  frankly  re 
lieved.  Only  Seraphin  protested. 

"And  you  will  leave  your  dinner  unfinished1?" 
he  cried. 

Cartaret  was  taking  his  hat  and  rain-coat 
from  the  row  of  pegs  on  the  wall  where,  among 
the  other  guests',  he  had  hung  them  when  he  en 
tered.  He  nodded  his  answer  to  Seraphin's  query. 

"Leave  your  dinner?"  said  Seraphin.  "But 
my  God,  it  is  paid  for!" 

"Good-night,"  said  Cartaret,  and  was  plunged 
down  the  stairs  by  the  strangely-garbed  woman 
tugging  at  his  hand. 


CHAPTER  V 

WHICH  TELLS  HOW  CARTARET  RETURNED  TO  THE 
RUE  DU  VAL-DE-GRACE,  AND  WHAT  HE  FOUND 
THERE 

La  timidite  cst  un  grand  peche  centre  1'amour. — Ana- 
tole  France :  La  Rotisserie  de  la  Reine  Fed  auque. 

IF  that  strange  old  woman  in  the  rakish  head 
dress  was  in  a  hurry,  Cartaret,  you  may  be 
sure,  was  in  no  mood  for  tarrying  by  the  way. 
He  left  the  Cafe  des  Deaux  Colombes,  pictur 
ing  The  Girl  of  the  Rose  desperately  ill,  and 
he  was  resolved  not  only  to  be  the  first  to 
come  to  her  aid,  but  to  have  none  of  the  res 
taurant's  suspicious  company  for  a  companion. 
Then,  no  sooner  had  he  passed  through  the 
empty  room  on  the  ground-floor  of  Mme.  Pas- 
beaucoup's  establishment  and  gone  a  few  steps 
toward  the  rue  de  Seine,  than  he  began  to  fear 
that  perhaps  the  house  to  which  he  was  ap 
parently  being  conducted — The  Girl's  house  and 

84 


HOW  CARTARET  RETURNED      85 

his  own — had  taken  fire;  or  that  the  cause  of  the 
duenna's  mission  was  some  like  misfortune  which 
would  be  better  remedied,  so  far  as  The  Girl's 
interests  were  concerned,  if  there  were  more 
rescuers  than  one. 

"What  is  the  matter*?"  he  begged  his  guide 
to  inform  him,  as  they  hurried  through  the  dark 
ened  streets. 

His  guide  lifted  both  hands  to  her  face. 

"Is  mademoiselle  ill?" 

The  duenna  shook  her  head  in  an  emphatic 
negative. 

"The  place  isn't  on  fire*?"  His  tone  was  one 
of  petition,  as  if,  should  he  pray  hard  enough, 
she  might  avert  the  catastrophe  he  now  dreaded; 
or  as  if,  by  touching  her  sympathies,  he  could 
release  some  hidden  spring  of  intelligible  speech. 

The  old  woman,  however,  only  shook  her  head 
again  and  hurried  on.  Cartaret  was  glad  to 
find  that  she  possessed  an  agility  impossible  for 
a  city-bred  woman  of  her  apparent  age,  and 
he  was  still  more  relieved  when  they  reached 
their  lodging-house  and  discovered  it  in  appa- 


86  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

rently  the  same  condition  as  that  in  which  he 
had  left  it. 

Their  ascent  of  the  stairs  was  like  a  race — a 
race  ending  in  a  dead-heat.  At  the  landing,  Car- 
taret  turned,  of  course,  toward  his  neighbor's 
door;  to  his  amazement,  the  old  woman  pulled 
him  to  his  own. 

He  opened  it  and  struck  a  match:  the  room 
was  empty.  He  held  the  match  until  it  burnt 
his  fingers. 

The  old  woman  pushed  him  toward  his  table, 
on  which  stood  a  battered  lamp.  She  pointed 
to  the  lamp. 

"But  your  mistress*?"  asked  Cartaret. 

The  duenna  pointed  to  the  lamp. 

"Shall  I  light  it?' 

She  nodded. 

He  lit  the  lamp.  The  flame  grew  until  it 
illuminated  a  small  circle  about  the  table. 

"Now   what1?"   Cartaret   inquired. 

Again  that  odd  gesture  toward  the  nose  and 
mouth. 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Cartaret. 


HOW  CARTARET  RETURNED      87 

She  picked  up  the  lamp  and  made  as  if  to 
search  the  floor  for  something.  Then  she  held 
out  the  lamp  to  him. 

"Oh" — it  began  to  drawn  on  Cartaret — 
"you've  lost  something?" 

"Out,  ouir 

He  took  the  lamp,  and  they  both  fell  on 
their  knees.  Together  they  began  a  minute  in 
spection  of  the  dusty  floor.  Cartaret's  mind  was 
more  easy  now:  at  least  his  Lady  suffered  no 
physical  distress. 

"It's  like  a  sort  of  religious  ceremony,"  mut 
tered  the  American,  as,  foot  by  foot,  they  crawled 
and  groped  over  the  grimy  boards. 

"Was  it  money  you  lost?"  he  inquired. 

No,  it  was  not  money. 

The  search  continued.  Cartaret  crawled  under 
the  divan,  while  the  duenna  held  the  cover  high 
to  admit  the  light.  He  blackened  his  hands  in 
the  fire-place  and  transferred  a  little  of  the  soot 
to  his  few  extra  clothes  that  hung  behind  the 
corner  curtain — but  only  a  little ;  most  of  the  soot 
preferred  his  hands. 


88  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"I  never  knew  before  that  the  room  was  so 
large,"  he  gasped. 

They  had  covered  two-thirds  of  the  floor- 
space  when  a  new  thought  struck  him.  Still 
crouching  on  his  knees,  he  once  more  tried  his 
companion. 

"I  can't  find  it,"  he  said;  "but  I'd  give  a  good 
deal  to  know  what  I'm  looking  for.  What  were 
you  doing  in  here  when  you  lost  it,  anyway?" 

She  shook  her  head,  with  her  hand  on  her 
breast.  Then  she  pointed  to  the  door  and 
nodded. 

"You  mean  your  mistress  lost  it*?" 

"Out." 

"Well,  then,  let's  get  her.  She  can  tell  me 
what  I'm  after." 

He  half  rose;  but  the  woman  seized  his  arm. 
She  broke  into  loud  sounds,  patently  protesta 
tions. 

"Nonsense,"  said  Cartaret.  "Why  not1?  Come 
on;  I'll  knock  at  her  door." 

The  duenna  would  not  have  her  mistress  dis 
turbed.  The  ancient  voice  rose  to  a  shriek. 


HOW  CARTARET  RETURNED      89 

"But  I  say  yes." 

The  shriek  grew  louder.  With  amazing 
strength,  the  old  woman  forced  his  unsuspecting 
body  back  to  its  former  position;  she  came  near 
to  jolting  the  lamp  from  his  hand. 

It  was  then  that  Cartaret  heard  a  lesser  noise 
behind  them:  a  voice,  the  low  sweet  voice  of 
The  Rose-Lady,  asked,  in  the  duenna's  strange 
tongue,  a  question  from  the  doorway.  Cartaret 
turned  his  head. 

She  was  standing  there  in  the  dim  light,  a 
sort  of  kimono  gathered  about  her,  her  sandaled 
feet  peeping  from  its  lower  folds,  the  lovely 
arm  that  held  the  curious  dressing-gown  in  place 
bare  to  the  elbow.  She  was  smiling  at  the 
answer  that  her  guardian  had  already  given  her; 
Cartaret  thought  her  even  more  beautiful  than 
when  he  had  seen  her  before. 

The  duenna  had  scuttled  forward  on  her  knees 
and,  amid  a  series  of  cries,  was  pressing  the  hem 
of  the  kimono  to  her  lips.  The  Girl's  free  hand 
was  raising  the  petitioner. 


90  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"I  am  sorry  that  you  have  been  disturbed  by 
Chitta,"  she  was  saying. 

Cartaret  understood  then  that  he  was  ad 
dressed.  Moreover,  he  became  conscious  that  he 
was  by  no  means  at  his  best  on  his  knees,  with 
his  clothes  even  more  rumpled  than  usual,  his 
hands  black  and,  probably,  his  face  no  better. 
He  scrambled  to  his  feet. 

"It's  been  no  trouble,"  he  said  awkwardly. 

"I  should  say  that  it  had  been  a  good  deal," 
said  the  Girl.  "Chitta  is  so  very  superstitious. 
Did  you  find  it?" 

"No,"  said  Cartaret.  "At  least  I  don't  think 
so." 

The  Girl  puckered  her  pretty  brow. 

"I  mean,"  explained  Cartaret,  coming  nearer, 
but  thankful  that  he  had  left  the  lamp  on  the 
floor  behind  him,  whence  its  light  would  least 
reveal  his  soiled  hands  and  face — "I  mean  that 
I  haven't  the  least  idea  what  I  was  looking 
for." 

The  Girl  burst  into  rippling  laughter. 

"Not    the    least,"    pursued    the    emboldened 


HOW  CARTARET  RETURNED      91 

American.  "You  see,  I  left  word  with  Ref- 
rogne — that's  the  concierge — that  I  was  dining 
with  some  friends  at  the  Deux  Colombes — that's 
a  cafe — when  I  went  out;  and  I  suppose  she — 
I  mean  your — your  maid,  isn't  it"? — made  him 
understand  that  she — I  mean  your  maid  again — 
wanted  me — you  know,  I  don't  generally  leave 
word ;  but  this  time  I  thought  that  perhaps  you — 
I  mean  she —  or,  anyhow,  I  had  an  idea " 

He  knew  that  he  was  making  a  fool  of  him 
self,  so  he  was  glad  when  she  came  serenely  to 
his  assistance  and  gallantly  shifted  the  difficulty 
to  her  own  shoulders. 

"It  was  too  bad  of  Chitta  to  take  you  away 
from  your  dinner." 

Chitta  had  slunk  into  the  shadows,  but  Car- 
taret  could  descry  her  glaring  at  him. 

"That  was  of  no  consequence,"  he  said;  he 
had  forgotten  what  the  dinner  cost  him. 

"But,  sir,  for  a  reason  of  so  great  an  ab 
surdity!"  She  put  one  hand  on  the  table  and 
leaned  on  it.  "I  must  tell  you  that  there  is 
in  my  country  a  superstition " 


92  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

She  hesitated.  Cartaret,  his  heart  leaping, 
leaned  forward. 

"What  is  your  country,  mademoiselle*?"  he 
asked. 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  that.    She  went  on: 

"It  is  really  a  superstition  so  much  absurd 
that  I  am  slow  to  speak  to  you  of  it.  They 
believe,  our  peasants,  that  it  brings  good  luck 
when  they  take  it  with  them  across  our  borders; 
that  only  it  can  ensure  their  return,  and  that, 
if  it  is  lost,  they  will  never  come  back  to  their 
home-land."  Her  blue  eyes  met  his  gaze.  'They, 
sir,  love  their  home-land." 

Cartaret  was  certain  that  the  land  which  could 
produce  this  presence,  at  once  so  human  and  so 
spiritual,  was  well  worth  loving.  He  wanted  to 
say  so,  but  another  glance  at  her  serene  face 
checked  any  impulse  that  might  seem  imper 
tinent. 

"I,  too,  love  my  country,  although  I  am  not 
superstitious,"  the  Girl  pursued,  "so  I  had  brought 
it  with  me  from  my  country.  I  brought  it  with 
me  to  Paris,  and  I  lost  it.  We  go  early  to 


HOW  CARTARET  RETURNED      93 

sleep,  the  people  of  my  race;  I  had  not  missed 
it  when  I  went  to  bed;  but  then  Chitta  missed 
it;  and  I  told  her  that  I  thought  that  I  had 
perhaps  dropped  it  here.  She  ran  before  I 
could  recall  her — and  I  fell  straightway  asleep. 
She  tells  me  that  she  had  seen  you  go  out,  sir, 
and  that  she  went  to  the  concierge,  as  you  sup 
posed,  to  discover  where  you  had  gone,  for  she 
thought,  she  says,  that  your  door  was  locked." 
The  corners  of  the  Girl's  mouth  quivered  in  a 
smile.  "I  trust  that  she  would  not  have  tres 
passed  when  you  were  gone,  even  if  your  door 
was  open.  Until  I  heard  her  shriek  but  now,  I 
had  no  idea  that  she  would  pursue  you.  I  re 
gret  for  your  sake  that  she  disturbed  you,  but  I 
also  regret  for  her  sake  that  it  was  not  found." 

Cartaret  had  guessed  the  answer  to  his  ques 
tion  before  he  asked  it.  His  cheeks  burned  for 
the  consequences,  but  he  put  the  query : 

"What  was  lost*?"  he  inquired. 

"Ah,  I  thought  that  I  had  said  it:  a  flower." 

"A— a  rose?' 


94  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

The  hand  that  held  her  kimono  pressed  a  lit 
tle  closer  to  her  breast. 

"Then  you  have  found  it*?" 

Mountain-peaks  and  glaciers  in  the  sun:  Car- 
taret,  being  a  practical  man,  was  distinctly 
aware  of  not  wanting  her  to  know  the  present 
whereabouts  of  that  flower.  He  fenced  for  time. 

"Was  it  a  rose1?"  he  repeated. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "the  Azure  Rose." 

"What?"  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  wrong. 
"I've  never  heard  of  a  blue  rose." 

"It  is  not  blue,"  she  said;  "we  call  it  the 
azure  rose  as  you,  sir,  would  say  the  rose  of 
azure,  or  the  rose  of  heaven.  We  call  it  the 
azure  rose  because  it  grows  only  in  our  own 
land,  where  the  mountains  are  blue,  and  only 
high,  high  up  on  those  mountains,  near  to  the 
blue  of  the  sky.  It  is  a  white  rose." 

"Yes.  Of  course,"  said  Cartaret.  "A  white 
rose." 

He  stood  uncertainly  before  her.  For  a  rea 
son  that  he  would  have  hesitated  long  to  de 
fine,  he  hated  to  part  with  that  rose;  for  a 


HOW  CARTARET  RETURNED      95 

reason  concerning  which  he  was  quite  clear,  he 
did  not  want  to  produce  it  there  and  then. 

"You  have  it?"  asked  The  Girl. 

"Er — do  you   want  it*?"   countered  Cartaret. 

A  shade  of  impatience  crossed  her  face.  She 
tried  to  master  it. 

"I  gather  from  your  speech  that  you,  sir,  are 
American,  not  English.  You  are  the  first  Ameri 
can  that  ever  I  have  met,  and  I  do  not  seem  well 
to  understand  the  motives  of  all  that  you  say, 
although  I  do  understand  perfectly  the  words. 
You  ask  do  I  want  this  rose.  But  of  course  I 
want  it!  Have  I  not  asked  for  it*?  I  want  it 
because  Chitta  will  be  distressed  if  we  lose  it, 
but  also  I  want  it  for  myself,  to  whom  it  be 
longs,  since  it  is  a  souvenir  already  dear  to  me." 

Her  face  was  alight.  Cartaret  looked  at  it; 
then  his  glance  fell. 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said.  "I  didn't  mean  to 
offend  you.  I'm  forever  putting  my  foot  in 
things." 

"You  have  trodden  on  my  rose?"  Her  voice 
discover*^;!  Ker  dismay. 


96  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"No,  no!  I  wouldn't — I  couldn't.  I  meant 
that  I  was  always  making  mistakes.  This  after 
noon,  for  instance — And  now " 

To  the  rescue  of  his  embarrassment  came  the 
thought  that  indeed  he  obviously  could  not  tread 
on  the  rose,  unless  he  were  a  contortionist,  be 
cause  the  rose  was 

Among  the  smudges  of  black,  his  cheeks 
burned  a  hot  red.  He  thrust  a  hand  between 
his  shirt  and  waistcoat  and  produced  the  coveted 
flower:  a  snow-rose  in  the  center  of  his  grimy 
palm. 

Again  the  perfume,  subtle,  haunting.  Again 
the  pure  mountain-peaks.  Again  the  music  of 
a  poem  in  a  tongue  unknown.  .  .  . 

At  first  he  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her;  he 
kept  his  gaze  lowered.  Had  he  looked,  he  would 
have  seen  her  wide  eyes  startle,  then  change  to 
amusement,  and  then  to  a  doubting  tenderness. 
He  felt  her  delicate  fingers  touch  his  palm  and 
he  thrilled  at  the  touch  as  she  recaptured  her 
rose.  He  did  not  see  that,  in  welcome  to  the 
returned  prodigal,  she  started  to  raise  to  her 


HOW  CARTARET  RETURNED      97 

own  lips  those  petals,  gathered  so  tight  against 
the  flower's  heart,  which  he  had  lately  kissed. 
When  at  last  he  glanced  up,  she  had  recovered 
her  poise  and  was  again  looking  like  some 
sculptured  Artemis  that  had  wandered  into  his 
lonely  room  from  the  gardens  of  the  Luxembourg- 
Then  he  saw  a  much  more  prosaic  thing.  He 
saw  the  hand  that  held  the  rose  and  saw  it 
discolored. 

"Will  you  ever  forgive  me?"  he  cried. 
"You've  been  leaning  on  my  table,  and  I  mix 
my  paints  on  it!" 

The  speech  was  not  precisely  pellucid,  but  she 
followed  his  eyes  to  the  hand  and  understood. 
"The  fault  was  mine,"  she  said. 
Cartaret  was  searching  among  the  tubes  and 
bottles  on  the  table.     He  searched  so  nervously 
that  he  knocked  some  of  them  to  the  floor. 

"If  you'll  just  wait  a  minute."  He  found 
the  bottle  he  wanted.  "And  if  you  don't  mind 
the  turpentine  ...  It  smells  terribly,  but 
it  will  evaporate  soon,  and  it  cleans  you  up 
before  you  know  it." 


98  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

He  lifted  one  of  the  rags  that  lay  about,  and 
then  another.  He  discarded  both  as  much  too 
soiled,  hesitated,  ran  to  the  curtained  corner 
and  returned  with  a  clean  towel. 

She  had  hidden  the  flower.  She  extended  her 
hand. 

"Do  you  mind?'  he  asked. 

"Do  I  object?    No.     You  are  kind." 

He  took  the  smudged  hand — took  it  with  a 
hand  that  trembled — and  bent  his  smudged  face 
so  close  to  it  that  she  must  have  felt  his  breath 
beating  on  it,  hot  and  quick.  He  made  two 
dabs  with  the  end  of  the  towel. 

Chitta,  whom  they  had  both  sadly  neglected, 
pounced  upon  them  from  her  lair  among  the 
shadows.  She  seized  the  hand  and,  jabbering 
fifty  words  in  the  time  for  two,  pushed  Cartaret 
from  his  work. 

"I'm  not  going  to  hurt  anybody,"  said  Car 
taret.  "Do,  please,  get  away." 

The  Girl  laughed. 

"Ghitta  trusts  no  foreigners,"  she  explained. 


HOW  CARTARET  RETURNED      99 

She  spoke  to  Chitta,  but  Chitta,  glowering  at 
Cartaret,  shook  her  head  and  grumbled. 

"I  do  not  any  more  desire  to  order  her  about," 
said  The  Girl  to  Cartaret.  "Already  this  even 
ing  I  have  wounded  her  feelings,  I  fear.  She 
says  she  will  allow  none  but  herself  to  minister 
to  me.  You,  sir,  will  forgive  her?  After  all, 
it  is  her  duty." 

Cartaret  inwardly  cursed  Chitta's  fidelity. 
What  he  said  was :  "Of  course."  He  knew  that 
just  here  he  might  say  something  gallant,  and 
that  he  would  think  of  that  something  an  hour 
hence;  but  he  could  not  think  of  it  now. 

The   Girl   touched   the   turpentine   bottle. 

"And  may  we  take  it  to  our  room?" 

"Eh?  Oh,  certainly,"  said  Cartaret. 

She  held  out  her  hand,  the  palm  lowered. 

"Good-night,"  she  said. 

Cartaret's  heart  bounded:  this  time  she  had 
not  said  "Good-bye."  He  seized  the  hand. 
Chitta  growled,  and  he  released  it  with  a  con 
ventional  handshake. 

The  Girl  smiled. 


ioo  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"Ah,  yes,"  she  said;  "this  afternoon  it  puzzled 
me,  but  now  I  recollect:  you  Americans,  sir, 
shake  one's  hand,  do  you  not1?" 

She  was  gone,  and  glowering  Chitta  with  her, 
before  he  could  answer. 

Cartaret  stood  where  she  had  left  him,  his 
brows  knitted.  He  heard  Chitta  double-lock 
the  door  to  their  rooms.  He  was  thinking 
thoughts  that  his  brain  was  not  accustomed  to. 
It  was  some  time  before  they  became  more  fa 
miliar.  Then  he  gasped: 

"I  wonder  if  my  face  is  dirty!" 

He  took  the  lamp  and  sought  the  sole  mirror 
that  his  room  boasted.  His  face  was  dirty. 

"Damn!"  said  Cartaret. 

Down  in  the  narrow  street,  an  uncertain  chorus 
was  singing: 

"There's  nothing,  friend,  'twixt  you  and  me 
Except  the  best  of  company. 

(There's  just  one  bock  'twixt  you  and  me, 

and  I'll  catch  up  full  soon!) 
What  woman's  lips  compare  to  this : 
This  sturdy  seidel's  frothy  kiss " 


HOW  CARTARET  RETURNED     101 

His  guests  were  coming  to  seek  him.  They 
had  remembered  him  at  last. 

Cartaret's  mind,  however,  was  busy  with  other 
matters.  He  had  not  thought  of  the  gallant 
thing  that  he  might  have  said  to  The  Girl,  but 
he  had  thought  of  something  equally  surprising. 

"Gee  whiz!"  he  cried.  "I  understand  now — 
it's  probably  the  custom  of  her  country:  she 
expected  me  to  kiss  her  hand.  Kiss  her  hand — 
and  I  missed  the  chance!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

CARTARET   SETS   UP    HOUSEKEEPING 

Que  de  f emmes  il  y  a  dans  une  femme !  Et  c'est  bien 
heureux. — Dumas,  Fils:  La  Dame  Aux  Perles. 

CARTARET  did  not  see  the  Lady  of  the  Rose  next 
day,  though  his  work  suffered  sadly  through  the 
worker's  jumping  from  before  his  easel  at  the 
slightest  sound  on  the  landing,  running  to  his 
door,  and  sometimes  himself  going  to  the  hall 
and  standing  there  for  many  minutes,  trying, 
and  not  succeeding,  to  look  as  if  he  had  just 
come  in,  or  were  just  going  out,  on  business  of 
the  first  importance.  He  concluded,  for  the 
hundredth  time,  that  he  was  a  fool;  but  he  per 
severed  in  his  folly.  He  asked  himself  why- 
he  should  feel  such  an  odd  interest  in  an  un 
known  girl  practically  alone  in  Paris;  but  he 
found  no  satisfactory  answer.  He  declared  that 
it  was  madness  in  him  to  suppose  that  she  could 


102 


CARTARET'S  HOUSEKEEPING     103 

want  ever  to  see  him  again,  and  madness  to 
suppose  that  a  penniless  failure  had  anything  to 
gain  by  seeing  her;  but  he  continued  to  try. 

On  the  night  following  the  first  day  of  his 
watch,  Cartaret  went  to  bed  disappointed  and 
slept  heavily.  On  the  second  night  he  went  to 
bed  worried,  and  dreamed  of  scaling  a  terrible 
mountain  in  quest  of  a  flower,  and  of  falling 
into  a  hideous  chasm  just  as  the  flower  turned 
into  a  beautiful  woman  and  smiled  at  him.  On 
the  third  night,  he  surrendered  to  acute  alarm 
and  believed  that  he  did  not  sleep  at  all. 

The  morning  of  the  fourth  day  found  him 
knocking  on  the  panel  of  that  magic  door  op 
posite.  Chitta  opened  the  door  a  crack,  growled, 
and  shut  it  in  his  face. 

"I  wonder,"  reflected  Cartaret,  "what  would 
be  the  best  means  of  killing  this  old  woman.  I 
wonder  if  the  hyena  would  eat  candy  sent  her 
by  mail." 

He  had  been  watching,  all  the  previous  day, 
for  the  Lady  of  the  Rose  to  go  out,  and  she 
did  not  leave  her  room.  Now  it  occurred  to  him 


104  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

to  watch  for  Chitta's  exit  on  a  forage  foray  and 
to  renew  his  attack  during  her  absence.  This  he 
accomplished.  From  a  front  window,  he  had  no 
sooner  seen  the  duenna  swing  into  the  rue  du 
Val  de  Grace,  with  her  headdress  bobbing  and 
a  shopping-net  on  her  arm,  than  he  was  again 
knocking  at  the  door  across  the  landing. 

He  knew  now,  did  Cartaret,  that,  on  whatever 
landing  of  life  he  had  lived,  there  was  always 
that  door  opposite,  the  handle  of  which  he  had 
never  dared  to  turn,  the  key  to  which  he  had 
never  yet  found.  He  knew,  on  this  morning — 
a  clear,  windy  morning,  for  March  had  come  in 
like  a  lion — that,  for  the  door  of  every  heart  in 
the  world,  or  high  or  low,  or  cruel  or  tender, 
there  is  a  heart  opposite  with  a  door  not  in 
accessible. 

The  pale  yellow  sun  sang  of  it:  Marvelous 
Door  Opposite! — it  seemed  to  sing — how,  when 
they  pass  that  portal,  the  commonplace  becomes 
the  unusual  and  reality  is  turned  into  romance. 
Lead  becomes  silver  then,  and  copper — gold. 
Magical  Door  Opposite!  All  the  possibilities  of 


CARTARET'S  HOUSEKEEPING 

life — aye,  and  what  is  better,  all  life's  impos 
sibilities — are  behind  you,  and  all  life's  fears 
and  hopes  before.  All  our  young  dreams,  our 
mature  ambitions,  our  old  regrets,  curl  in  incense 
from  our  brains  and  struggle  to  pass  that  key 
hole.  Unhappy  he  for  whom  the  door  never 
opens ;  more  unhappy,  often,  he  for  whom  it  does 
open;  but  most  unhappy  he  who  never  sees  that 
it  is  there:  the  Door  across  the  Landing. 

Cartaret  knocked  as  if  he  were  knocking  at  the 
gate  of  Paradise,  and,  perhaps  again  as  if  he  were 
knocking  at  the  gate  of  Paradise,  he  got  no  an 
swer.  He  knocked  a  second  time  and  heard  the 
rustle  of  a  woman's  skirt. 

"Who  is  there1?" — She  spoke  in  French  now, 
but  he  would  have  known  her  voice  had  she 
talked  the  language  of  Grand  Street. 

"Cartaret,"  he  answered. 

She  opened  the  door.  A  ray  of  light  beat  its 
way  through  a  grimy  window  in  the  hall  to  wel 
come  her — Cartaret  was  sure  that  no  light  had 
passed  that  window  for  years  and  years — and 


io6  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

rested  on  the  beauty  of  her  pure  face,  her  calm 
eyes,  her  blue-black  hair. 

"Good  morning,"  said  the  Lady  of  the  Rose. 

It  sounded  wonderful  to  him.  When  he  re 
plied  "Good  morning" — and  could  think  of 
nothing  else  to  say — the  phrase  sounded  less  re 
markable. 

She  waited  a  moment.  She  looked  a  little 
doubtful.  She  said: 

"You  perhaps  wanted  Chitta?" 

Were  her  eyes  laughing"?  Her  lips  were  seri 
ous,  but  he  was  uncertain  of  her  eyes. 

"Certainly  not,"  said  he. 

"Oh,  you  wanted  me4?" 

"Yes!"  said  Cartaret,  and  blushed  at  the  ve 
hemence  of  the  monosyllable. 

"Why1?" 

For  what,  indeed,  had  he  come  there'?  He 
vividly  realized  that  he  should  have  prepared 
some  excuse ;  but,  having  prepared  none,  he  could 
offer  only  the  truth — or  so  much  of  it  as  seemed 
expedient. 


CARTARET'S  HOUSEKEEPING     107 

"I  wanted  to  see  if  you  were  all  right,"  he 
said. 

"But  certainly,"  she  smiled.  "I  thank  you, 
sir;  but,  yes,  I  am — all  right." 

She  said  no  more;  Cartaret  felt  as  if  he  could 
never  speak  again.  However,  speak  he  must. 

"Well,  you  know,"  he  said,  "I  hadn't  seen 
you  anywhere  about,  and  I  was  rather  worried." 

"Chitta  takes  of  me  the  best  care." 

"Yes,  but,  you  see,  I  didn't  know  and  I — 
Oh,  yes:  I  wanted  to  see  whether  that  turpen 
tine  worked." 

"The  turpentine!"  All  suspicion  of  amuse 
ment  fled  her  eyes:  she  was  contrite.  "I  com 
prehend.  How  careless  of  Chitta  not  at  once 
to  have  returned  it  to  you." 

Turpentine!  What  a  nectar  for  romance! 
Cartaret  made  a  face  that  could  not  have  been 
worse  had  he  swallowed  some  of  the  liquid.  He 
tried  to  protest,  but  she  did  not  heed  him.  In 
stead,  she  left  him  standing  there  while  she 
went  to  hunt  for  that  accursed  bottle.  In  five 
minutes  she  had  found  it,  returned  it,  thanked 


io8  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

him  and  sent  him  back  to  his  own  room,  no 
further  advanced  in  her  acquaintance  than  when 
he  knocked  at  her  door. 

She  had  laughed  at  him.  He  returned  fiercely 
to  his  work,  convinced  that  she  had  been  laugh 
ing  at  him  all  the  while.  Very  well:  what  did 
he  care?  He  would  forget  her. 

He  concentrated  all  his  thoughts  upon  the 
idea  of  forgetting  the  Lady  of  the  Rose.  In 
order  to  assist  his  purpose,  he  set  a  new  canvas 
on  his  easel  and  fell  to  work  to  make  a  portrait 
of  her  as  she  should  be  and  was  not.  The  con 
trast  would  help  him,  and  the  plan  was  cheap, 
because  it  needed  no  model.  By  the  next  after 
noon  he  had  completed  the  portrait  of  a  beau 
tiful  woman  with  a  white  rose  at  her  throat.  It 
was  quite  his  best  piece  of  work,  and  an  excellent 
likeness  of  the  girl  in  the  room  opposite. 

He  saw  that  it  was  a  likeness  and  thought  of 
painting  it  out,  but  it  would  be  a  pity  to  destroy 
his  best  work,  so  he  merely  put  it  aside.  He 
decided  to  paint  a  purely  imaginative  figure. 
He  squeezed  out  some  paints,  almost  at  hap- 


CARTARET'S  HOUSEKEEPING     109 

hazard,  and  began  painting  in  that  mood.  After 
forty-eight  hours  of  this  sort  of  thing,  he  had 
produced  another  picture  of  the  same  woman  in 
another  pose. 

In  more  ways  than  one,  Cartaret's  position 
was  growing  desperate.  His  money  was  almost 
gone.  He  must  paint  something  that  Fourget, 
or  some  equally  kind-hearted  dealer,  would  buy, 
and  these  two  portraits  he  would  not  offer  for 
sale. 

Telling  himself  that  it  was  only  to  end  his 
obsession,  he  tried  twice  again  to  see  the  Lady 
of  the  Rose,  who  was  now  going  out  daily  to 
some  master's  class,  and  each  time  he  gained 
nothing  by  his  attempt.  First,  she  would  not 
answer  his  knock,  though  he  could  hear  her  mov 
ing  about  and  knew  that  she  must  have  heard 
him  crossing  the  hall  from  his  own  room  and 
be  aware  of  her  caller's  identity.  On  the  next 
occasion,  he  waited  for  her  at  the  corner  of  the 
Boul'  Miche'  when  he  knew  that  she  would  be 
returning  from  the  class,  and  was  greeted  by 
nothing  save  a  formal  bow.  So  he  had  to  force 


1 10  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

himself  to  potboilers  by  sheer  determination,  and 
finally  turned  out  something  that  then  seemed 
poor  enough  for  Fourget  to  like. 

Houdon  came  in  and  found  him  putting  on 
the  finishing  touches.  The  plump  musician, 
frightened  by  his  impudence,  had  stopped  below 
at  his  own  room  on  the  night  of  the  dinner 
when  the  revelers  at  last  came  to  seek  their  host. 
Now  it  appeared  that  he  was  anxious  to  apolo 
gize.  He  advanced  with  the  dignity  befitting 
a  monarch  kindly  disposed,  and  his  gesturing 
hands  beat  the  score  of  the  kettle-drums  for  the 
march  of  the  priests  in  A'ida. 

"My  very  dear  Cartarette!"  cried  Houdon. 
"Ah,  but  it  is  good  again  to  see  you!  I  so 
regretted  myself  not  to  ascend  with  our  friends 
to  call  upon  you  the  evening  of  our  little  col 
lation."  He  sought  to  dismiss  the  subject  with 
a  run  on  the  invisible  piano  and  the  words :  "But 
I  was  slightly  indisposed:  without  doubt  our 
good  comrades  informed  you  that  I  was  slightly 
indisposed.  I  am  very  sensitive,  and  these 


CARTARET'S  HOUSEKEEPING     111 

munions  of  high  thought  are  too  much  for  my 
delicate  nerves." 

His  good  comrades  had  told  Cartaret  that 
Houdon  was  very  drunk;  but  Cartaret  decided 
that  to  continue  his  quarrel  would  be  an  insult 
to  its  cause.  After  all,  he  reflected,  this  was 
Houdon's  conception  of  an  apology.  Cartaret 
looked  at  the  composer,  who  was  a  walking 
symbol  of  good  feeding  and  iron  nerves,  and 
replied: 

"Don't  bother  to  mention  it." 

Houdon  seized  both  of  Cartaret's  hands  and 
pressed  them  fondly. 

"My  friend,"  said  Houdon  magnanimously, 
"we  shall  permit  ourselves  to  say  no  more  about 
it.  What  sings  your  sumblime  poet,  Henri 
Wadsworth  Longchap?  'I  shall  allow  the  de 
composed  past  to  bury  her  dead.' — Or  do  I  mis 
take:  was  it  Whitman,  hein?" 

He  gestured  his  way  to  Cartaret's  easel,  much 
as  if  the  air  were  water  and  he  were  swimming 
there.  He  praised  extravagantly  the  picture  that 
Cartaret  now  knew  to  be  bad.  Finally  he  be- 


112  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

gan  to  potter  about  the  room  with  a  pretense 
of  admiring  the  place  and  looking  at  its  other 
canvases,  but  all  the  while  conveying  the  feel 
ing  that  he  was  apprising  the  financial  status 
of  its  occupant.  Cartaret  saw  him  drawing 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  two  canvases  that, 
their  faces  toward  the  wall,  bore  the  likeness 
of  the  Lady  of  the  Rose. 

"I  am  just  going  out,"  said  Cartaret.  He 
hurried  to  his  visitor  and  took  the  fellow's  arm. 
"I  must  take  that  picture  on  the  easel  to  the 
rue  St.  Andre  des  Arts.  Will  you  come  along1?" 

Houdon  seemed  suspicious  of  this  sudden 
friendliness.  He  cast  a  curious  glance  at  the 
canvases  he  had  been  about  to  examine,  but 
his  choice  was  obviously  Hobson's. 

"Gladly,"  he  flourished.  "To  my  ctier  ami 
Fourget,  is  it4?  But  I  know  him  well.  Perhaps 
my  influence  may  assist  you." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Cartaret.  He  doubted  it,  but 
he  hoped  that  something  would  assist  him. 

He  held  the  picture,  still  wet  of  course,  ex 
posed  for  all  the  world  of  the  Quarter  to  see, 


CARTARET'S  HOUSEKEEPING     113 

hurried  Houdon  past  the  landing  and  could 
have  sworn  that  the  composer's  eyes  lingered 
at  the  sacred  door. 

"But  it  is  an  infamy,"  said  Houdon,  when 
they  had  walked  as  far  down  the  Boul'  Miche' 
as  the  Musee  Cluny — "it  is  an  infamy  to  sell 
at  once  such  a  superb  work  to  such  a  little  cow 
of  a  dealer.  Why  then*?" 

"Because  I  must,"  said  Cartaret. 

Houdon  laughed  and  wagged  his  head. 

"No,  no,"  said  he;  "you  deceive  others:  not 
Houdon.  I  know  well  the  disguised  prince. 
Come" — he  looked  up  and  down  the  Boulevard 
St.  Germain  before  he  ventured  to  cross  it — 
"trust  your  friend  Houdon,  my  dear  Cartarette." 

"I  am  quite  honest  with  you." 

"Bah!  Have  your  own  way,  then.  Pursue 
your  fancy  of  self-support  for  a  time.  It  is 
noble,  that.  But  think  not  that  I  am  deceived. 
Me,  Houdon:  I  know.  Name  of  an  oil-well, 
you  should  send  this  masterpiece  to  the  Salon!" 

But  just  at  the  corner  of  the  rue  St.  Andre 
des  Arts,  the  great  composer  thought  that  he  saw 


114  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

ahead  of  him  a  friend  with  whom  he  had  a  press 
ing  engagement  of  five  minutes.  He  excused 
himself  with  such  a  wealth  of  detail  that  Car- 
taret  was  convinced  of  the  slightness  of  the 
Fourget  acquaintanceship,  which  Houdon  had 
not  again  referred  to. 

"I  shall  be  finished  and  waiting  at  this  cor 
ner  long  ere  you  return,"  vowed  Houdon.  "Go, 
my  friend,  and  if  that  little  dealer  pays  you 
one  third  of  what  your  picture  is  worth,  my 
faith,  he  will  bankrupt  himself." 

So  Cartaret  went  on  alone,  and  was  pres 
ently  glad  that  he  was  unaccompanied. 

For  Fourget  would  not  buy  the  picture.  It 
was  a  silly  sketch  of  a  pretty  boy  pulling  to 
tatters  the  petals  of  a  rose,  and  the  gray-haired 
dealer,  although  he  had  kindly  eyes  under  his 
bristling  eyebrows,  behind  his  glistening  spect 
acles,  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said :  so  many  of  these  hope 
ful  young  fellows  brought  him  their  loved  work, 
and  he  had  so  often,  but  never  untruthfully,  to 
that  he  was  sorry.  "I  am  very  sorry,  but 


CARTARET'S  HOUSEKEEPING     115 

this  is  not  the  real  you,  monsieur.  The  values — 
you  know  better  than  that.  The  composition — 
it  is  unworthy  of  you,  M.  Cartarette." 

Cartaret  was  in  no  mood  to  try  elsewhere.  He 
wanted  to  fling  the  thing  into  the  Seine.  He 
certainly  did  not  want  Houdon  to  see  him  return 
with  it.  Might  he  leave  it  with  Fourget  ?  Per 
haps  some  customer  might  see  and  care  for  it? 

No,  Fourget  had  his  reputation  to  sustain;  but 
there  was  that  rascal  Lepoittevin  across  the 
street 

Cartaret  went  to  the  rascal,  a  most  amiable 
man,  who  would  buy  no  more  than  would 
Fourget.  He  was  willing,  however,  to  have  the 
picture  left  there  on  the  bare  chance  of  picking 
up  a  sale — and  a  commission — and  there  Car 
taret  left  it. 

Houdon  wormed  the  truth  out  of  him  as 
easily  as  if  Cartaret  had  come  back  carrying 
the  picture  under  his  arm:  the  young  American 
was  too  disconsolate  to  hide  his  chagrin.  Houdon 
was  at  first  incredulous  and  then  overcome;  he 
asked  his  dear  friend  to  purchase  brandy  for  the 


n6  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

two  of  them  at  the  Cafe  Pantheon:  such  treat 
ment  of  a  veritable  masterpiece  was  too  much 
for  his  sensitive  nerves. 

With  some  difficulty,  Cartaret  got  rid  of  the 
composer.  On  a  bench  in  the  Luxembourg 
Gardens,  he  took  account  of  his  resources.  They 
were  shockingly  slender  and,  if  they  were  to  last 
him  any  time  at  all,  he  must  exercise  the  most 
stringent  economy.  He  must  buy  no  more 
brandy  for  musical  geniuses.  Indeed,  he  must 
buy  no  more  cafe  dinners  for  himself.  .  . 

It  struck  him,  as  a  happy  thought,  that  he 
might  save  a  little  if  he  lived  on  such  cold 
solids  as  he  could  buy  at  the  fruit-stand  and 
patisseries  and  such  liquids  as  he  might  warm  in 
a  tin-cup  over  his  lamp.  Better  men  than  he 
was  had  lived  thus  in  the  Quarter,  and  Cartaret, 
as  the  thought  took  shape,  rather  enjoyed  the 
prospect:  it  made  him  feel  as  if  he  were  another 
martyr  to  Art,  or  as  if — though  he  was  not 
clear  as  to  the  logic  of  this — he  were  another 
martyr  tc  Love.  He  considered  going  to  Pere 
la  Chaise  and  putting  violets  on  the  tomb  of 


CARTARET'S  HOUSEKEEPING     117 

Heloise  and  Abelard;  but  he  decided  that  he 
could  not  afford  the  tram-fare,  and  he  was  al 
ready  too  tired  to  walk,  so  he  made  his  scanty 
purchases  instead,  and  had  rather  a  good  time 
doing  it. 

He  passed  Chitta  on  his  way  up  the  stairs  to 
his  room,  with  his  arms  full  of  edibles,  and  he 
thought  that  she  frowned  disapproval.  He  sup 
posed  she  would  tell  her  mistress  scornfully,  and 
he  hoped  that  her  mistress  would  understand 
and  pity  him. 

He  got  a  board  and  nailed  it  to  the  sill  of 
one  of  the  rear  windows.  On  that  he  stored 
his  food  and,  contemplating  it,  felt  like  a  suc 
cessful  housekeeper. 


CHAPTER  VII 

OF    DOMESTIC     ECONOMY,     OF    DAY-DREAMS,     AND 
OF  A  FAR  COUNTRY  AND  ITS  SOVEREIGN   LADY 

L'indiscretion  d'un  de  ces  amis  oificieux  qui  ne  saraient 
garder  inedite  la  nouvelle  susceptible  de  vous  causer  un 
chagrin. — Murger:  Scenes  de  la  Vie  de  Boheme. 

You  would  have  said  that  it  behooved  a  man 
in  Charlie  Cartaret's  situation  to  devote  his  even 
ings  to  a  consideration  of  its  difficulties  and  his 
days  to  hard  work;  but  Cartaret,  though  he  did, 
as  you  will  see,  try  to  work,  devoted  the  first 
evening  of  his  new  regime  to  thoughts  that,  if 
they  affected  his  situation  at  all,  tended  only 
to  complicate  it.  He  thought,  as  he  had  so  much 
of  late,  and  as  he  was  to  think  so  much  more 
in  the  future,  of  the  Lady  of  the  Rose. 

Who  was  she  ?  Whence  did  she  come  ?  What 
was  this  native  land  of  hers  that  she  professed 
to  love  so  well?  And,  if  she  did  love  it  so  well, 
why  had  she  left  it  and  come  to  Paris  with  a 

118 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         119 

companion  that  appeared  to  be  some  strange 
compromise  between  guardian  and  servant"? 

He  wondered  if  she  were  some  revolutionary 
exile:  Paris  was  always  full  of  revolutionary 
exiles.  He  wondered  if  she  were  a  rightful 
heiress,  dispossessed  of  a  foreign  title.  Perhaps 
she  was  the  lovely  pretender  to  a  throne.  In 
that  mysterious  home  of  hers,  she  must  have 
possessed  some  exalted  position,  or  the  right  to 
it,  for  Chitta  had  kneeled  to  her  on  the  dusty 
floor  of  this  studio,  and  the  Lady's  manner,  he 
now  recalled,  was  the  manner  of  one  accus 
tomed  to  command.  Her  beauty  was  of  a  type 
that  he  had  read  of  as  Irish — the  beauty  of  fair 
skin,  hair  black  and  eyes  of  deepest  blue;  but 
the  speech  was  the  English  of  a  woman  born 
to  another  tongue. 

What  was  her  native  speech"?  Both  her  French 
and  her  English  were  innocent  of  alien  accent — 
he  had  heard  at  least  a  phrase  or  two  of  the 
former — yet  both  had  a  precision  that  betrayed 
them  as  not  her  own  and  both  had  a  foreign- 
born  construction.  Her  frequent  use  of  the  word 


120  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"sir"  in  addressing  him  was  sufficiently  peculiar. 
She  employed  the  word  not  as  one  that  speaks 
frequently  to  a  superior,  but  rather  as  if  she 
were  used  to  it  in  a  formal  language,  or  a  grade 
of  life,  in  which  it  was  a  common  courtesy.  It 
was  something  more  usual  than  the  French 
"monsieur,"  even  more  usual  than  the  Spanish 
"senor." 

Cartaret  leaned  from  a  window.  The  air  was 
still  keen,  but  the  night  was  clear.  The  rue  du 
Val  de  Grace  was  deserted,  its  houses  dark  and 
silent.  Overhead,  in  the  narrow  ribbon  of  indigo 
sky,  hung  a  pallid  moon:  a  disk  of  yellow  glass. 

What  indeed  was  she,  this  Lady  of  the 
Rose?  He  pictured  as  hers  a  distant  country 
of  deep  valleys  full  of  clamoring  streams  and 
high  mountains  where  white  roses  grew.  He  pic 
tured  her  as  that  country's  sovereign.  Yet  the 
rose  which  she  treasured  had  not  yet  faded  on 
the  day  of  her  arrival:  she  could  not  come  from 
anywhere  so  far  away. 

He  was  cold.  He  closed  the  window,  shiver 
ing.  He  was  ridiculous:  why,  he  had  been  in 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         121 

danger  of  falling  in  love  with  a  woman  of  whom 
he  knew  nothing!     He  did  not  even  know  her 

name.     .     .     . 

***** 

The  passage  of  slow-footed  time  helped  him, 
however,  not  at  all.  He  would  sit  for  hours, 
idle  before  his  easel,  listening  for  her  light  step 
on  the  stair  and  afraid  to  go  to  meet  her  when 
at  last  he  heard  it,  for  he  was  desperately  poor 
now,  and  poverty  was  making  him  the  coward 
that  it  will  sooner  or  later  make  any  man. 

He  had  antagonized  the  concierge  by  prepar 
ing  his  own  coffee  in  the  morning  instead  of 
continuing  to  pay  Mme.  Refrogne  for  it.  When 
he  had  something  to  cook,  he  cooked  badly;  but 
there  were  days  when  he  had  nothing,  and  lived 
on  pastry  and  bricks  of  chocolate,  and  others 
when  it  seemed  to  him  that  such  supplies  as  he 
could  buy  and  store  on  that  shelf  outside  the 
window  were  oddly  short-lived. 

For  a  while  he  called  daily  at  the  shop  of  M. 
Lepoittevin,  but  that  absurd  picture  of  a  boy 
tearing  a  rose  would  not  sell,  and  Cartaret  soon 


122  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

grew  ashamed  of  calling  there ;  Fourget  he  would 
not  face.  He  managed  at  first  to  dispose  of  one 
or  two  sketches  and  so  kept  barely  alive,  yet,  as 
the  days  went  by,  his  luck  dwindled  and  his 
greatest  energy  was  expended  in  keeping  up  a 
proud  pretense  of  comfort  to  his  friends  of  the 
Quarter. 

Pear-shaped  Devignes  was  easy  to  deceive :  the 
opera-singer  lived  too  well  to  want  to  believe 
that  anybody  in  the  world  could  starve.  Gar- 
nier,  the  cadaverous  poet,  saved  trouble,  indulg 
ing  his  dislike  of  other  people's  poverty  by  re 
maining  away  from  it;  but  Seraphin,  who  came 
often  and  sat  about  the  studio  in  a  silence  wholly 
uncharacteristic,  was  difficult.  Houdon,  finally, 
was  frequent  and  expensive:  he  always  foraged 
about  what  he  called  Cartaret's  "tempting  win 
dow-buffet,"  but  he  regarded  the  condition  of 
affairs  as  the  passing  foible  of  a  young  man 
temporarily  wearied  by  the  pleasures  of  wealth. 

"Ah,"  he  snorted  one  day  when  he  had  come 
in  with  Varachon,  "you  fail  wholly  to  deceive 
me,  Cartarette.  You  say  you  are  not  well-to-do 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         123 

so  that  we  shall  think  that  you  are  not,  but  I 
know,  I!  Had  you  not  your  own  income,  you 
would  try  to  sell  more  pictures,  and  j^our  pictures 
are  superb.  They  would  fetch  a  pretty  sum. 
Believe  not  that  because  I  have  a  great  musical 
genius  I  have  no  eye  for  painting.  I  know  good 
painting.  All  Arts  are  one,  my  brother." 

He  jabbed  Cartaret's  empty  stomach  and, 
whistling  a  theme  and  twisting  his  little  mus 
tache,  went  to  the  window  and  took  a  huge 
bite  of  the  last  apple  there. 

Cartaret  watched  the  composer  toss  half  the 
apple  into  the  concierge's  garden. 

Varachon,  the  sculptor,  grunted  through  his 
broken  nose. 

"Your  work  is  bad,"  he  whispered  to  Car 
taret — "very  bad.  You  require  a  long  rest.  Go 
to  Nice  for  a  month." 

The  weeks  passed.  Cartaret  was  underfed 
and  discouraged.  He  was  too  discouraged  now 
to  attempt  to  renew  his  acquaintance  with  the 
Lady  of  the  Rose.  He  was  pale  and  thin,  and 
this  from  reasons  wholly  physical. 


124  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

Meanwhile,  through  the  scented  dawns,  April 
was  coming  up  to  that  city  in  which  April  is 
most  beautiful  and  most  seductive.  From  the 
spicy  Mediterranean  coasts,  along  the  Valley  of 
the  Rhone,  Love  was  dancing  upon  Paris  with 
laughing  Spring  for  his  partner.  Already  the 
trees  had  blossomed  between  the  Place  de  La 
Concorde  and  the  Rond  Point,  and  out  in  the 
Bois  the  birds  were  singing  to  their  mates. 

One  morning,  when  Cartaret,  with  unsteady 
hand,  drew  back  his  curtain,  rouge-gorges  were 
calling  from  the  concierge's  garden,  and  seemed 
to  be  calling  to  him. 

"Seize  hold  of  love!"  they  chorused  in  that 
garden.  "Life  is  short;  time  flies,  and  love  flies 
with  it.  Love  will  pass  you  by.  Take  it,  take 
it,  take  it,  while  there  still  is  time!  Like  us,  it 
is  a  bird  that  flies,  but,  unlike  us,  it  never  more  re 
turns.  It  is  a  rose  that  withers — a  white  rose :  take 
it  while  it  blooms.  Take  it,  though  it  leave  you 
soon ;  take  it,  though  it  scratch  your  fingers.  Take 
it,  take  it,  take  it  now!" 

On  that  day  the  annual  siege  of  Paris  ended, 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         125 

the  city  fell  before  her  invaders,  and  by  the  time 
that  Cartaret  went  into  the  streets,  the  army  of 
occupation  was  in  possession.  The  Luxembourg 
Gardens,  the  very  benches  along  the  Boul'  Miche' 
were  full  of  lovers:  he  could  not  stir  from  the 
house  without  encountering  them. 

From  it,  however,  he  had  to  go:  the  Spring 
called  him  with  a  sad  seductiveness  that  he  could 
no  longer  resist.  He  wandered  aimlessly,  trying 
the  impossible:  trying  to  keep  his  eyes  from  the 
couples  that  also  wandered,  but  wandered  hand 
in  hand,  and  trying  to  keep  his  thoughts  from 
roses  and  the  Lady  of  the  Rose. 

He  found  himself  before  one  of  the  riverside 
bookstalls,  fingering  an  old  book,  leather-bound. 
The  text,  he  realized,  was  English,  or  what  once 
was  so:  it  was  a  volume  of  Maundeville,  and 
Cartaret  was  reading: 

"Betwene  the  cytee  and  the  chirche  of  Beth 
lehem  is  the  felde  Floridus;  that  is  to  seyne,  the 
field  florsched.  For  als  moche  as  a  fayre  mayden 
was  blamed  with  wrong  ...  for  whiche 
cause  sche  was  demed  to  the  dethe,  and  to  ke 


126  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

brent  in  that  place,  to  the  which  she  was  ladd. 
And,  as  the  fyre  began  to  brenne  about  hire, 
she  made  her  preyeres  to  cure  Lord,  that  als 
wissely  as  sche  was  not  gylty  .  .  .  that  he 
would  help  hire,  and  make  it  to  be  knowen  to 
alle  men  of  his  mercyfulle  grace.  And,  whanne 
sche  had  thus  seyd,  sche  entered  into  the  fuyer; 
and  anon  was  the  fuyer  quenched  and  oute,  and 
the  brondes  that  weren  brennynge  becomen  white 
roseres,  full  of  roses;  and  theise  werein  the  first 
roseres  and  roses,  both  white  and  rede,  that  ever 
ony  man  saughe.  And  thus  was  this  mayden 
saved  by  the  grace  of  God."  .  .  . 

All  that  week — while  the  contents  of  his  win 
dow-sideboard  dwindled,  he  was  sure,  faster  than 
he  ate  from  it — he  had  tried  to  forget  every 
thing  by  painting  heavily  at  potboilers.  He  had 
begun  with  the  aim  of  earning  enough  to  resume 
his  studies;  he  had  continued  with  the  hope  of 
getting  together  enough  to  keep  alive — in  Paris. 
And  yet,  fleeing  from  that  bookstall,  he  was 
fool  enough  to  walk  all  the  way  to  Les  Halles, 
to  walk  into  Les  Halles,  and  to  stop,  fascinated 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         127 

by  a  counter  laden  with  boxes  of  strawberries, 
odorous  and  red,  the  smallest  box  of  which  was 
beyond  the  limits  of  his  economy. 

That  was  bad  enough — it  was  absurd  that  his 
will  should  voluntarily  play  the  Barmecide  for 
the  torture  of  his  unrewarded  Shacabac  of  a 
stomach — but  worse,  without  fault  of  his  own, 
was  yet  to  follow  this  mere  aggravation  of  his 
baser  appetites.  Spring  and  Paris  are  an  irre 
sistible  combination  on  the  side  of  folly,  and 
that  evening  another  sign  of  them  presented 
itself :  there  was  a  burst  of  music ;  a  hurdy-gurdy 
was  playing  in  the  rue  du  Val  de  Grace,  and 
Cartaret,  from  his  window,  listened  eagerly.  It 
has  been  intimated  from  the  best  of  sources  that 
all  love  lives  on  music,  and  it  is  the  common 
experience  that  when  any  love  cannot  get  the 
best  music,  it  takes  what  it  can  get: 

"Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift; 

Her  throat  is  like  the  swan; 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on— 


128  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on — 
And  dark  blue  is  her  e'e 


That  French  hurdy-gurdy  was  playing  "Annie 
Laurie,"  and,  since  the  lonely  artist's  heart  ached 
to  hear  the  old,  familiar  melody,  when  the 
bearded  grinder  looked  aloft,  Cartaret  drew  a 
coin  from  his  pocket.  Anxious  to  pay  for  his 
pain,  as  the  human  kind  always  is,  he  tossed 
his  last  franc  to  that  vendor  of  emotions  in  the 
twilit  street. 

He  was  drunk  at  last  with  the  wine  that  his 
own  misery  distilled.  He  abandoned  himself  to 
the  admission  that  he  was  in  love:  he  abandoned 
himself  to  his  dream  of  the  Lady  of  the  Rose. 

Seraphin,  in  a  wonderful  new  suit  of  clothes, 
found  him  thus  the  next  morning — it  was  a 
Friday — and  found  him  accordingly  resentful  of 
intrusion.  Cartaret  was  sitting  before  an  empty 
easel,  his  hands  clasped  in  his  lap,  his  eyes  look 
ing  vacantly  through  the  posts  of  the  easel. 

"Good-day,"  said  Seraphin. 

Cartaret  said  "Good-day"  as  if  it  were  a  form 
of  insult. 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         129 

Seraphin's  hands  tugged  at  his  two  wisps  of 
whisker. 

"You  are  not  well,  hein?" 

"I  was  never  better  in  my  life,"  snapped  Car- 
taret,  turning  upon  his  friend  a  face  that  was 
peeked  and  drawn. 

The  Frenchman  came  timidly  nearer. 

"My  friend,"  he  said,  "I  have  completed  my 
magnum  opus.  It  has  not  sold  quite  so  well  as  I 
hoped,  not  of  course  one  thousandth  of  its  value. 
That  is  this  Spanish  cow  of  a  world.  But  I  have 
three  hundred  francs.  If  you  need " 

"Go  away,"  said  Cartaret,  looking  at  his 
empty  easel.  "Can't  you  see  I'm  trying  to  begin 
work?' 

Seraphin  himself  had  suffered.  His  dignity 
was  not  offended :  he  kept  it  for  only  his  creditors 
and  other  foes.  He  guessed  that  Cartaret  was 
at  last  penniless,  and  he  guessed  rightly. 

"Come,  my  friend,"  he  began;  "none  shall 
know.  Will  you  not  be  so  kind  as  to  let  me " 

Cartaret   got   up   and,    for   all   his   weakness, 


130  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

gripped  the  Frenchman's  hand  until  Dieudonne 
nearly  screamed. 

"I'm  a  beast,  Seraphin!"  said  Cartaret.  Vl'm 
a  beast  to  treat  a  friendly  offer  this  way.  For 
give  me.  It's  just  that  I  feel  a  bit  rocky  this 
morning.  I  drank  too  much  champagne  last 
night.  I  do  thank  you,  Seraphin.  You're  a 
good  fellow,  the  best  of  the  lot,  and  a  sight 
better  than  I  am.  But  I'm  not  hard  up;  really 
I'm  not.  I'm  poor,  but  I'm  not  a  sou  poorer 
than  I  was  this  time  last  year." 

It  was  a  magnificent  lie.  Seraphin  could  only 
shrug,  pretend  to  believe  it,  and  go  away. 

Cartaret  scarcely  heeded  the  departure.  He 
had  relapsed  into  his  day-dream.  He  took  from 
against  the  wall  the  two  portraits  that  he  had 
painted  of  the  Lady  of  the  Rose  and  hung  them, 
now  here,  now  there,  trying  them  in  various 
lights.  There  were  at  least  ten  more  sketches 
of  her  by  this  time,  and  these,  too,  he  hung  in 
first  one  light  and  then  another.  He  studied 
them  and  tried  to  be  critical,  and  forgot  to  be. 

His  thoughts  of  her  never  took  the  shape  of 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY        ,131 

conscious  words — he  loved  her  too  much  to  at 
tempt  to  praise  her — but,  as  he  looked  at  his 
endeavors  to  portray  her,  his  mind  was  busy 
with  his  memories  of  all  that  loveliness — and 
passed  from  memories  to  day-dreams.  He  saw 
her  as  something  that  might  fade  before  his 
touch.  He  saw  her  as  a  Princess,  incognito, 
learning  his  plight,  buying  his  pictures  secretly, 
and,  when  she  came  to  her  throne,  letting  him 
serve  her  and  worship  from  afar.  And  then  he 
saw  her  even  as  a  Galatea  possible  of  miraculous 
awakening.  Why  not*?  Her  eyes  were  the  clear 
eyes  of  a  woman  that  has  never  yet  loved,  but 
they  were  also,  he  felt,  the  eyes  of  one  @f  those 
rare  women  who,  when  they  love  once,  love  for 
ever.  Cartaret  dared,  in  his  thoughts,  to  lift 
the  heavy  plaits  of  her  blue-black  hair  and,  with 
trembling  fingers,  again  to  touch  that  hand  at 
the  recollection  of  touching  which  his  own  hand 
tingled. 

Why  not,  indeed?  Already  a  stranger  thing 
had  happened  in  his  meeting  her.  Until  that 
year  he  had  not  guessed  at  her  existence;  oceans 


132  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

divided  them;  the  barriers  of  alien  race  and 
alien  speech  were  raised  high  between  them,  and 
all  of  these  things  had  been  in  vain.  The  exis 
tence  was  revealed,  the  ocean  was  crossed,  the 
bar  of  sundering  speech  was  down.  He  was 
here,  close  beside  her,  as  if  every  event  of  his 
life  had  been  intended  to  bring  him.  Through 
blind  ways  and  up  ascents  misunderstood,  unat- 
tracted  by  the  many  and  lonely  among  the 
crowd,  he  had,  somehow,  always  been  making 
his  way  toward — Her. 

Thus  Cartaret  dreamed  while  Seraphin  made 
a  hurried  journey  to  the  rue  St.  Andre  des  Arts 
and  the  shop  of  M.  Fourget. 

"But  no,  but  no,  but  no!"  Fourget's  bushy 
brows  met  in  a  frown.  "It  is  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  Something  has  happened  to  the  boy.  He 
can  no  longer  paint." 

Oh,  well,  at  least  monsieur  could  go  to  the 
boy's  rooms  and  see  what  he  had  there. 

"No.     Am  I  then  a  silly  philanthropist?" 

Seraphin  tried  to  produce  his  false  dignity. 
What  he  brought  out  was  something  genuine. 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         133 

"I  ask  it  from  the  heart,"  he  pleaded.  "Do 
not  I,  my  God,  know  what  it  is  to  be  hungry*?" 

"Hungry?"  said  the  dealer.  "Hungry!  The 
boy  has  an  uncle  famously  rich.  What  is  an 
uncle  for?  Hungry?  You  make  une  betise. 
Hungry."  He  called  his  clerk  and  took  up  his 
hat.  "I  will  not  go,"  he  vowed.  "Hungry,  par 
example!" 

"Truly  you  will  not,"  smiled  Seraphin.  "And 

do  not  tell  him  that  I  sent  you:  he  is  proud." 

***** 

The  sound  of  the  door  opening  interrupted 
Cartaret's  dream.  He  turned,  a  little  sheepish, 
wholly  annoyed.  Spectacled  Fourget  stood  there, 
looking  very  severe. 

"I  was  passing  by,"  he  explained.  "I  have 
not  come  to  purchase  anything,  but  I  grow  old: 
I  was  tired  and  I  climbed  your  stairs  to  rest." 

It  was  too  late  to  hide  those  portraits.  Car- 
taret  could  only  place  for  Fourget  a  chair  with 
its  back  to  them. 

"What  have  you  been  doing?"  asked  the 
dealer. 


134  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

He  swung  'round  toward  the  portraits. 

"Don't  look  at  them!"  said  Cartaret.  "They're 
merely  sketches." 

But  Fourget  had  already  looked.  He  was  on 
his  feet.  He  was  bobbing  from  one  to  the 
other,  his  lean  hands  adjusting  his  glasses,  his 
shoulders  stooped,  his  nose  thrust  out.  He  was 
uttering  little  cries  of  approval. 

"But  this  is  good!  It  is  good,  then.  This  is 
first-rate.  This  is  of  an  excellence!'* 

"They're  not  for  sale,"  said  Cartaret. 

"Hein?"  Fourget  wheeled.  "If  they  are  not 
for  sale,  they  are  for  what,  then1?" 

"They — they  are  merely  sketches,  I  tell  you. 
I  was  trying  my  hand  at  a  new  method;  but 
I  find  there  is  nothing  in  it." 

Fourget  was  unbuttoning  his  short  frock-coat. 
He  was  reaching  for  his  wallet. 

"I  tell  you  there  is  everything  in  it.  There  is 
the  sure  touch  in  it,  the  clear  vision,  the  sym 
pathy.  There  is  reputation  in  it.  In  fine,  there 
is  money." 

He  had  the  wallet  out  as  he  concluded. 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY,         135 

Cartaret  shook  his  head. 

"Oh,"  said  Fourget,  the  dealer  in  him  par 
tially  overcoming  the  lover  of  art,  "not  much 
as  yet;  not  a  great  deal  of  money.  You  have 
still  a  long  way  to  go;  but  you  have  found  the 
road,  monsieur,  and  I  want  to  help  you  on  your 
journey.  Come,  now."  He  nodded  to  the  first 
portrait.  "What  do  you  ask  for  that*?" 

"I  don't  want  to  sell  it." 

"Poof!  We  shall  not  haggle.  Tell  Fourget 
what  you  had  thought  of  asking.  Do  not  be 
modest.  Tell  me — and  I  will  give  you  half." 

He  kept  it  up  as  long  as  he  could;  he  tried 
at  last  to  buy  the  least  of  the  preliminary 
sketches  of  the  Rose-Lady;  he  offered  what,  to 
Cartaret,  were  dazzling  prices;  but  Cartaret  was 
not  to  be  shaken :  these  experiments  were  not  for 
sale. 

Fourget  was  first  disappointed,  then  puzzled. 
His  enthusiasm  had  been  genuine;  but  could 
it  be  possible  that  Dieudonne  was  mistaken? 
Was  Cartaret  not  starving?  The  old  man  was 


136  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

beginning  to  button  his  cpat  when  a  new  idea 
struck  him. 

"Who  was  your  model*?"  he  asked  abruptly. 

"I — I  had  none,"  Cartaret  stammered. 

"Ah!" — Fourget  peered  hard  at  him  through 
those  glistening  spectacles.  "You  painted  them 
from  memory'?" 

"Yes."  Cartaret  felt  his  face  redden.  "From 
imagination,  I  mean." 

Then  Fourget  understood.  Perhaps  he  had 
merely  the  typical  Frenchman's  love  of  romance, 
which  ceases  only  with  the  typical  Frenchman's 
life;  or  perhaps  he  remembered  his  own  youth 
in  Besangon,  when  he,  too,  had  wanted  to  be 
an  artist  and  when,  among  the  vines  on  the 
hillside,  little  Rosalie  smiled  at  him  and  kissed 
his  ambition  away — little  Rosalie  Poullot,  dust 
and  ashes  these  twenty  years  in  the  Cimetiere  du 
Mont  Parnasse.  .  .  . 

He  turned  to  a  pile  of  pot-boilers.  He  took 
one  almost  at  random. 

"This  one,"  he  said,  "I  should  like  to  buy  it." 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         137 

It  was  the  worst  pot-boiler  of  the  lot.  Before 
the  portraits,  it  was  hopeless. 

Cartaret  half  understood. 

"No,"  he  said;  "you  don't  really  want  it." 

Seraphin  had  been  right:  the  young  man  was 
proud.  "How  then*?"  demanded  Fourget.  "This 
also  did  you  paint  not-to-sell?" 

"I  painted  it  to  sell,"  said  Cartaret  miserably, 
"but  it  doesn't  deserve  selling — perhaps  just  be 
cause  I  did  paint  it  to  sell." 

To  his  surprise,  Fourget  came  to  him  and  put 
an  arm  on  his  shoulder,  a  withered  hand  patting 
the  American's  back. 

"Ah,  if  but  some  more-famous  artists  felt  as 
you  do!  Come;  let  me  have  it.  That  is  very 
well.  I  shall  sell  it  to  a  fool.  Many  fools  are 
my  patrons.  How  else  could  I  live?  There 
is  not  enough  good  art  to  meet  all  demands,  or 
there  are  not  enough  demands  to  meet  all  good 
art.  Who  shall  say?  Suffice  it  there  are  de 
mands  of  sorts.  Daily  I  thank  the  good  God 
for  His  fools. 


138  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

Cartaret  went  to  Les  Halles  and  bought  a 
targe  box  of  strawberries. 

***** 

He  had  put  them  carefully  on  his  window- 
shelf  and  covered  them  with  a  copy  of  a  last 
week's  Matin — being  an  American,  he  of  course 
read  the  Matin — for  he  was  resolved  that,  now 
he  again  had  a  little  money,  these  strawberries 
should  be  his  final  extravagance  and  should  be 
treasured  accordingly — he  had  just  anchored  the 
paper  against  the  gentle  Spring  breeze  when  he 
became  aware  that  he  had  another  visitor. 

Standing  by  his  table,  much  as  she  had  stood 
there  on  the  night  of  his  second  sight  of  her,  was 
the  Lady  of  the  Rose. 

Cartaret  thought  that  his  eyes  were  playing 
him  tricks.  He  rubbed  his  eyes. 

"It  is  I,"  she  said. 

He  thought  that  again  he  could  detect  the 
perfume  of  the  Azure  Rose.  He  again  thought 
that  he  could  see  white  mountaavtops  in  the 
sun.  He  could  have  sworn  that,  in  the  street, 
a  hurdy-gurdy  was  playing: 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         139 

"Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift; 
Her  throat  is  like  the  swan " 

"I  came  in,"  she  was  saying,  "to  see  how  you 
were.  I  should  have  sent  Chitta,  but  she  was 
so  long  coming  back  from  an  errand." 

"Thank  you,"  he  said — he  was  not  yet  cer 
tain  of  himself — "I'm  quite  well.  But  I'm  very 
glad  you  called." 

"Yet  you,  sir,  look  pale,  and  your  friend" — 
her  forehead  puckered — "told  me  that  you  had 
been  ill." 

"My  friend^"  He  spoke  as  if  he  had  none 
in  the  world,  though  now  he  knew  better. 

"Yes:  such  a  pleasant  old  gentlemjan  with  gray 
hair  and  glasses.  As  I  came  in  half  an  hour 
ago,  I  met  him  on  the  stairs." 

"Fourget!" 

"Was  that  his  name"?  He  seemed  most  anx 
ious  about  you." 

"He  is  my  friend." 

"I  like  him,"  said  the  Lady  of  the  Rose. 

"Then  you  understand  him.  I  didn't  under 
stand  him — till  this  morning.  He  is  an  art- 


140  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

dealer:  those  that  he  won't  buy  from  think  him 
hard;  the  friends  of  those  that  he  buys  from 
think  him  a  fool." 

Although  he  had  reassured  her  of  his  health,  she 
seemed  charmingly  willing  to  linger.  Really,  she 
was  looking  at  Cartaret's  haggard  cheeks  with  a 
wonderful  sympathy. 

"So  he  bought  from  you?" 

Cartaret  nodded. 

"Only  I  hope  you  won't  think  him  a  fool," 
he  said. 

"I  shall  consider,"  she  laughed.  "I  must  first 
see  some  of  your  work,  sir." 

She  came  farther  into  the  room.  She  moved 
with  an  easy  dignity,  her  advance  into  the  light 
displaying  the  lines  of  her  gracile  figure,  the 
turn  of  her  head  discovering  the  young  curve 
of  her  throat;  her  eyes,  as  they  moved  about 
his  studio,  were  clear  and  starry. 

In  the  presence  of  their  original,  Cartaret  had 
forgotten  the  portraits.  Now  she  saw  them  and 
turned  scarlet. 

It  was  a  time  for  no  more  pride  on  the  part 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         141 

of  the  painter:  already,  head  high  in  air,  she 
had  turned  to  go.  It  was  a  time  for  honest 
dealing.  Cartaret  barred  her  way. 

"Forgive  me!"  he  cried.  "Won't  you  please 
forgive  me?" 

She  tried  to  pass  him  without  a  word. 

"But  listen.  Only  listen  a  minute!  You 
didn't  think — oh,  you  didn't  think  I'd  sold  him 
one  of  those?  They  were  on  the  wall  when  he 
came  in,  and  I  couldn't  get  them  away  in  time. 
I'd  put  them  up — Well,  I'd  put  them  up  there 
because  I — because  I  couldn't  see  you,  so  I 
wanted  to  see  them." 

His  voice  trembled;  he  looked  ill  now:  she 
hesitated. 

"What  right  had  you,  sir,  to  paint  them4?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  hadn't  any.  Of  course,  I 
hadn't  any!  But  I  wouldn't  have  sold  them  to 
the  Luxembourg." 

What  was  it  that  Fourget  had  told  her  when 
he  met  her  on  the  stair1? — "Mademoiselle,  you 
will  pardon  an  old  man:  that  Young  Cartarette 
cannot  paint  pot-boilers,  and  in  consequence  he 


H2  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

starves.  For  more  things  than  money,  made- 
moiselle.  But  because  he  cannot  paint  pot-boilers 
and  get  money,  he  starves  literally." — Her  heart 
smote  her  now,  but  she  could  not  refrain  from 
saying : 

"Perhaps  the  Luxembourg  did  not  offer — in 
the  person  of  M.  Fourget?" 

The  last  vestige  of  his  pride  left  CartareL 

"He  wanted  to  buy  those  portraits,"  he  said. 
"I  know  that  my  action  loses  by  the  telling  of 
it  whatever  virtue  it  might  have  had,  but  I'd 
rather  have  that  happen  than  have  you  think 
what  you've  been  thinking.  He  offered  me  more 
for  them  than  for  all  my  other  pictures  to 
gether,  but  I  couldn't  sell." 

It  was  a  mood  not  to  be  denied:  she  forgave 
him. 

"But  you,  sir,  must  take  them  all  down,"  she 
said,  "and  you  must  promise  to  paint  no  more 
of  them." 

He  would  have  promised  anything:  he  prom 
ised  this,  and  he  had  an  immediate  reward. 


OF  DOMESTIC  ECONOMY         143 

"To-morrow,"  she  asked,  "perhaps  you  will  eat 
dejeuner  with  Chitta  and  me*? 

Would  he!  He  did  not  know  that  she  in 
vited  him  because  of  Fourget's  use  of  the  phrase 
"starving  literally."  He  accepted,  declaring  that 
he  would  never  more  call  Friday  unlucky. 

"At  eleven  o'clock*?"  she  asked. 

"At  eleven,"  he  bowed. 

When  she  was  gone,  Cartaret  went  again  to 
the  window  that  looked  on  the  concierge's  garden. 
The  robins  were  still  singing: 

"Seize  hold  of  love!  It  is  a  rose — a  white 
rose.  Take  it — take  it — take  it  now !" 


Theft  in  its  simplicity — however  sharp  and  rude,  yet 
if  frankly  done,  and  bravely — does  not  corrupt  men's 
souls;  and  they  can,  in  a  foolish,  but  quite  vital  and 
faithful  way,  keep  the  feast  of  the  Virgin  Mary  in  the 
midst  of  it. — Ruskin :  Fors  Clavigera. 

IT  was  quite  true  that  he  had  resolved  to  be 
careful  of  the  money  that  old  Fourget  had  paid 
him  for  the  pot-boiler.  He  still  meant  to  be 
careful  of  it.  But  he  was  to  be  a  guest  at 
dejeuner  next  morning,  and  a  man  must  not 
breakfast  with  a  Princess  and  wear  a  costume 
that  is  really  shockingly  shabby.  Cartaret  there 
fore  set  about  devising  some  means  of  bettering 
his  wardrobe. 

His  impulse  was  to  buy  a  new  suit  of  clothes, 
as  Seraphin  had  done  when  he  sold  his  picture. 
Seraphin,  however,  had  received  a  good  deal 

more   money   than   Cartaret,   and   Cartaret   was 

144 


CONCERNING  STRAWBERRIES     145 

really  in  earnest  about  his  economies:  when  he 
had  spent  half  the  afternoon  in  the  shops,  and 
found  that  most  of  the  ready-made  suits  there 
exposed  for  sale  would  cost  him  the  bulk  of  his 
new  capital,  he  decided  to  sponge  his  present 
suit,  sew  on  a  few  buttons  and  then  sleep  with 
it  under  his  mattress  by  way  of  pressing  it.  A 
new  necktie  was,  nevertheless,  imperative:  he  had 
been  absent-mindedly  wiping  his  brushes  on  the 
old,  and  it  would  not  do  to  smell  more  of 
turpentine  than  the  exigencies  of  his  suit  made 
necessary;  the  scent  of  turpentine  is  not  ap 
petizing. 

If  you  have  never  been  in  love,  you  may  sup 
pose  that  the  selection  of  so  small  a  thing  as  a 
necktie  is  trivial;  otherwise,  you  will  know  that 
there  are  occasions  when  it  is  no  light  matter,  and 
you  will  then  understand  why  Cartaret  found  it 
positively  portentous.  The  first  score  of  neck 
ties  that  he  looked  at  were  impossible;  so  were 
the  second.  In  the  third  he  found  one  that  would 
perhaps  just  do,  and  this  he  had  laid  aside  for 
him  while  he  went  on  to  another  shop.  He  went 


146  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

to  several  other  shops.  Whereas  he  had  at  first 
found  too  few  possibilities,  he  was  now  embar 
rassed  by  too  many.  There  was  a  flowing  marine- 
blue  affair  with  white  fleur-de-lys  that  he  thought 
would  do  well  for  Seraphin  and  that  he  consid 
ered  for  a  moment  on  his  own  account.  He  went 
back  to  the  first  shop  and  so  through  the  lot 
again.  In  the  end,  his  American  fear  of  anything 
bright  conquered,  and  he  bought  a  gray  "four- 
in-hand"  that  might  have  been  made  in  Philadel 
phia. 

On  his  return  he  went  to  the  window  to  see 
how  his  strawberries  were  doing.  He  remem 
bered  the  anecdote  about  the  good  cleric,  who 
said  that  doubtless  God  could  have  made  a  bet 
ter  berry,  but  that  doubtless  God  never  did.  Car- 
taret  wondered  if  it  would  be  an  impertinence 
to  offer  his  strawberries  to  the  Lady  of  the  Rose. 

They  were  gone. 

He  went  down  the  stairs  in  two  jumps.  He 
thrust  his  head  into  the  concierge's  cavern. 

"Who's  been  to  my  room  2"  he  shouted.  He 
was  still  weak,  but  anger  lent  him  strength. 


CONCERNING  STRAWBERRIES     147 

Refrogne  growled. 

"Tell  me!"  insisted  Cartaret. 

"How  should  I  know*?"  the  concierge  countered. 

"It's  your  business  to  know.  You're  respon 
sible.  Who's  come  in  and  gone  out  since  I  went 
out?" 

"Nobody." 

"There  must  have  been  somebody !  Somebody 
has  been  to  my  room  and  stolen  something." 

Thefts  are  not  so  far  removed  from  the  sphere 
of  a  concierge's  natural  activities  as  unduly  to 
excite  him. 

"To  rob  it  is  not  necessary  that  one  eome  in 
from  without,"  said  he. 

"You  charge  a  tenant?" 

"I  charge  nobody.  It  is  you  that  charge,  mon 
sieur.  I  did  not  know  that  you  possessed  to  be 
stolen.  A  thief  of  a  tenant?  But  certainly.  One 
cannot  inquire  the  business  of  one's  tenants.  What 
house  is  without  a  little  thief?" 

"I  believe  you  did  it !"  said  Cartaret. 

Refrogne  whistled,  in  the  darkness,  a  bar  of 
"Margarita." 


148  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

Houdon  was  passing  by.  He  made  suave  en 
quiries. 

"But  not  Refrogne,"  he  assured  Cartaret.  "You 
do  an  injustice  to  a  worthy  man,  my  dear  friend. 
Besides,  what  is  a  box  of  strawberries  to  you  9" 

Cartaret  felt  that  he  was  in  danger  of  making 
a  mountain  of  a  molehill ;  he  had  the  morbid  fear, 
common  to  his  countrymen,  of  appearing  ridicu 
lous.  It  occurred  to  him  that  it  would  not  have 
been  beyond  Houdon  to  appropriate  the  ber 
ries,  if  he  had  happened  into  the  room  and  found 
its  master  absent ;  but  to  bother  further  was  to  be 
once  more  absurd. 

"I  don't  suppose  it  does  matter,"  he  said;  "but 
my  supplies  have  been  going  pretty  fast  lately, 
and  if  I  was  to  catch  the  thief,  I'd  hammer  the 
life  out  of  him." 

"Magnificent!"  gurgled  Houdon  as  he  passed 
gesturing  into  the  street. 

Cartaret  returned  toward  his  room.  The  dusk 
had  fallen  and,  if  he  had  not  known  the  way  so 
well,  he  would  have  had  trouble  in  finding  it.  He 
was  tired,  too,  and  so  he  went  slowly.  That  he 


CONCERNING  STRAWBERRIES     149 

also  went  softly  he  did  not  realize  until  he  gently 
pushed  open  the  door  to  his  quarters. 

A  shadowy  figure  was  silhouetted  against  the 
window  out  of  which  Cartaret  kept  his  supplies, 
and  the  figure  seemed  to  have  some  of  them  in  its 
hands. 

Cartaret's  anger  was  still  hot.  Now  it  flamed 
to  a  sudden  fury.  He  did  not  pause  to  consider 
the  personality,  or  even  the  garb,  of  the  thief. 
He  saw  nothing,  thought  nothing,  save  that  he 
was  being  robbed.  He  charged  the  dim  figure; 
tackled  it  as  he  once  tackled  runners  on  the  foot 
ball-field;  fell  with  it  much  as  he  had  fallen  with 
those  runners  in  the  days  of  old — except  that  he 
fell  among  a  hail  of  food-stuffs — and  then  found 
himself  tragically  holding  to  the  floor  the  duenna 
Chitta. 

It  was  a  terrible  thing,  this  battle  with  a  fright 
ened  woman.  Cartaret  tried  to  rise,  but  she 
gripped  him  fast.  His  amazement  first,  and  next 
his  mortification,  would  have  left  him  nerveless, 
but  Chitta  was  fighting  like  a  tigress.  His  face 
was  scratched  and  one  finger  bitten,  before  he 


ijfo  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

could  hold  her  quiet  enough  to  say,  in  slow  French : 

"I  did  not  know  that  it  was  you.  You  are 
welcome  to  what  you  want.  I  am  going  to  let 
you  go.  Don't  struggle.  I  shan't  hurt  you.  Get 
up." 

He  thanked  Heaven  that  she  understood  at  least 
a  little  of  the  language.  Shaken,  he  got  to  his 
own  feet;  but  Chitta,  instead  of  rising,  surpris 
ingly  knelt  at  his. 

She  spouted  a  long  speech  of  infinite  emotion. 
She  wept.  She  clasped  and  unclasped  her  hands. 
She  pointed  to  the  room  of  her  mistress ;  then  to 
her  mouth,  and  then  rubbed  that  portion  of  her 
figure  over  the  spot  where  the  appetite  is  appeased. 

"Do  you  mean,"  gasped  Cartaret — "do  you 
mean  that  you  and  your  mistress" — this  was  ter 
rible! — "have  been  poor?" 

Chitta  had  come  to  the  room  without  her  head 
dress,  and  the  subsequent  battle  had  sent  her  hair 
in  dank  coils  about  her  shoulders.  She  nodded; 
the  shaken  coils  were  like  so  many  serpents. 

"And  that  she  has  been  hungry*? — Hungry?" 

A  violent  negative.    Chitta  bobbed  toward  Car- 


CONCERNING  STRAWBERRIES     151 

taret's  rifled  stores  and  then  toward  the  street,  as 
if  to  include  other  stores  in  the  same  circle  of 
depredation.  She  was  also  plainly  indignant  at 
the  idea  that  she  would  permit  her  mistress  to  be 
hungry. 

"Oh,"  said  Cartaret,  "I  see!  You  are  a  con 
sistent  thief." 

This  time  Chitta's  nod  was  a  proud  one;  but 
she  pointed  again  to  the  other  room  and  shook 
her  head  violently;  then  to  herself  and  nodded 
once  more.  Words  could  not  more  plainly  have 
said  that,  although  she  had  been  supplementing 
her  provisions  by  petty  thefts,  her  employer  knew 
nothing  about  them. 

And  she  must  not  be  told.  Again  Chitta  began 
to  bob  and  moan  and  weep.  She  pointed  across 
the  hallway,  put  a  finger  to  her  lips,  shook  her 
old  head  and  finally  held  out  her  clasped  hands  in 
supplication. 

Cartaret  emptied  his  pockets.  He  wished  he 
had  not  been  so  extravagant  as  to  buy  that  necktie. 
He  handed  to  Chitta  all  the  money  left  from  the 


152  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

price  that  Fourget  had  paid  him,  to  the  last  five- 
centime  piece. 

"Take  this,"  he  said,  "and  be  sure  you  don't 
ever  let  your  mistress  know  where  it  came  from. 
I  shan't  tell  anybody  about  you.  When  you  want 
more,  come  direct  to  me."  He  knew  that  he  could 
paint  marketable  pot-boilers  now. 

She  wanted  to  kiss  his  hand,  but  he  hurried 
from  the  woman  and  left  her  groveling  behind 
him.  .  .  . 

"M.  Refrogne,"  he  said  to  the  concierge,  "I  owe 
you  an  apology.  I  am  sorry  for  the  way  I  spoke 
to  you  a  while  ago.  I  have  found  those  strawber 
ries." 

"Bah!"  said  Refrogne.  He  added,  when  Car- 
taret  had  passed:  "In  his  stomach,  most  likely." 

Slowly  the  horror  of  having  had  to  use  physical 
force  against  a  woman  left  Cartaret.  He  started 
for  a  long  walk  and  thought  many  things.  He 
thought,  as  he  trudged  at  last  across  L'Etoile,  how 
the  April  starshine  was  turning  the  Arc  de  Triom- 
phe  to  silver,  and  how  the  lovers  on  the  benches  at 
the  junction  of  the  rue  Lauriston  and  the  avenue 


CONCERNING  STRAWBERRIES     153 

Kleber  made  Napoleon's  arch  in  praise  of  war  a 
monument  to  softer  passions.  He  thought,  as  he 
strolled  from  the  avenue  d'Eylan  and  across  the 
Place  Victor  Hugo,  how  the  heart  of  that  poet, 
whose  statue  here  represented  him  as  so  much  the 
politician,  must  grow  warm  when,  as  now,  boys 
and  girls  passed  arm  in  arm  about  the  pediment. 
The  night  bore  jonquils  in  her  hands  and  wore  a 
spray  of  wisteria  in  her  hair.  Brocaded  ghosts  of 
the  old  regime  must  be  pacing  a  stately  measure  at 
Ranelagh,  and  all  the  elves  of  Spring  were  danc 
ing  in  the  Bois. 

The  Princess  was  poor.  That  brought  her 
nearer  to  him :  it  gave  him  a  chance  to  help  her. 
Cartaret  found  it  hard  to  be  sorry  that  she  was 
poor. 


CHAPTER  IX 

BEING    THE     TRUE     REPORT     OF     A     CHAPERONED 
DEJEUNER 

For  she  hath  breathed  celestial  air, 

And  heavenly  food  hath  been  her  fare, 

And  heavenly  thought  and  feelings  give  her  face 

That  heavenly  grace. 

— Southey:  The  Curse  of  Kehama. 

SOMETIMES  a  mattress  is  doubtless  as  efficient 
a  means  of  pressing  one's  clothes  as  any  other 
means,  but  doubtless  always  a  good  deal  depends 
upon  the  mattress.  By  way  of  general  rules,  it 
may  be  laid  down,  for  instance,  that  the  mattress 
employed  must  not  be  too  thin,  must  not  be 
stuffed  with  a  material  so  gregarious  as  to  gather 
together  in  lumpy  communities,  and  must  not 
sag  in  the  middle.  Cartaret's  mattress  failed  to 
meet  these  fundamental  requirements,  and  when 
he  made  his  careful  toilet  on  the  morning  that  he 

was  to  take  dejeuner  at  the  Room  Across  the 

154 


A  CHAPERONED  DEJEUNER      155 

Landing,  he  became  uneasily  aware  that  his  clothes 
betrayed  certain  evidences  of  what  had  happened 
to  them.  He  had  been  up  half  a  dozen  times  in 
the  night  to  rearrange  the  garments,  in  fear  of 
just  such  a  misfortune;  but  his  activities  were 
badly  repaid;  the  front  of  the  suit  bore  a  series  of 
peculiar  wrinkles,  rather  like  the  complicated 
hatchments  on  an  ancient  family's  escutcheon ;  he 
could  not  see  how,  when  the  coat  was  on  him,  its 
back  looked,  and  he  was  afraid  to  speculate.  With 
his  mirror  now  hung  high  and  now  standing  on 
the  floor,  he  practiced  before  it  until  he  happily 
discovered  that  the  wrinkles  could  be  given  a 
more  or  less  reasonable  excuse  if  he  could  only  re 
member  to  adopt  and  assume  a  mildly  Pre- 
Raphaelite  bearing. 

Something  else  that  his  glass  showed  him  gave 
him  more  anxiety  and  appeared  beyond  conceal 
ment:  Chitta's  claws  had  left  two  long  scratches 
across  his  right  cheek.  He  had  no  powder  and 
no  money  to  buy  any.  He  did  think  of  trying  a 
touch  of  his  own  paint,  but  he  feared  that  oils 
were  not  suited  to  the  purpose  and  would  only 


156  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

make  the  wound  more  noticeable.  He  would 
simply  have  to  let  it  go. 

He  had  wakened  with  the  first  ray  of  sunlight 
that  set  the  birds  to  singing  in  the  garden,  and, 
Chitta's  fall  of  the  previous  evening  having  spilled 
his  coffee  and  devastated  his  supplies,  he  was 
forced  to  go  without  a  petit  dejeuner.  He  found 
a  little  tobacco  in  one  of  his  coat-pockets  and 
smoked  that  until  the  bells  of  St.  Sulpice,  after  an 
unconscionable  delay,  rang  the  glad  hour  for  which 
he  waited. 

Chitta  opened  the  door  to  his  knock,  and  he 
was  at  once  aware  of  'her  mistress  standing,  in 
white,  behind  her;  but  the  old  duenna  was  aware 
of  it  too  and  ordered  herself  accordingly.  Chitta 
bowed  low  enough  to  appease  the  watchful  Lady 
of  the  Rose,  but  Chitta's  eyes,  as  she  lowered  them, 
glowered  at  him  suspiciously.  It  was  clear  that 
she  by  no  means  joined  in  the  welcome  that  the 
Lady  immediately  accorded  him. 

The  Lady,  in  clinging  muslin  and  with  a  black 
lace  scarf  of  delicate  workmanship  draped  over 
her  black  hair,  gave  him  her  hand,  and  this  time 


A  CHAPERONED  DEJEUNER      157 

Cartaret  was  not  slow  to  kiss  it.  The  action  was 
one  to  which  he  was  scarcely  accustomed,  and  he 
hesitated  between  the  fear  of  being  discourteously 
brief  about  it  and  the  fear  of  being  discourteously 
long.  He  could  be  certain  only  of  how  cool  and 
firm  her  hand  was  and,  as  he  looked  up  from  it, 
how  pink  and  fresh  her  cheeks. 

It  was  then  that  the  Lady  saw  the  scratches. 

"Oh,  but  you  have  had  an  accident !"  she  cried. 

Cartaret's  hand  went  to  his  face.  He  looked 
at  Chitta :  Chitta's  returning  glance  was  something 
between  an  appeal  and  a  threat,  but  a  trifle  nearer 
the  latter. 

"I  had  a  little  fall,"  said  Cartaret,  "and  I  was 
scratched  in  falling." 

The  room  was  bare,  but  clean  and  pleasant, 
fresh  from  the  constant  application  of  Chitta's 
mop  and  broom,  fresher  from  the  Spring  breeze 
that  came  in  through  the  front  windows,  and 
freshest  from  the  presence  of  the  Lady  of  the 
Rose.  Two  curtained  corners  seemed  to  contain 
beds.  At  the  rear,  behind  a  screen,  there  must 
have  been  a  gas-stove  where  Chitta  could  soon 


158  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

be  heard  at  work  upon  the  breakfast.  What 
furniture  there  was  bore  every  evidence  of  be 
ing  Parisian,  purchased  in  the  Quarter;  there  was 
none  to  indicate  the  nationality  of  the  tenants; 
and  the  bright  little  table,  at  which  Cartaret  was 
presently  seated  so  comfortably  as  to  forget  the 
necessity  of  the  Pre-Raphaelite  pose,  was  Parisian 
too. 

"You  must  speak  French,"  smiled  the  Lady — 
how  very  white  her  teeth  were,  and  how  very 
red  her  lips ! — as  she  looked  at  him  across  the  cof 
fee-urn:  "that  is  the  sole  condition  that,  sir,  I 
impose  upon  you." 

"Willingly,"  said  Cartaret,  in  the  language 
thus  imposed;  "but  why,  when  you  speak  English 
so  well4?" 

"Because" — the  Lady  was  half  serious  about 
it — "I  had  to  promise  Chitta  that,  under  threat 
of  her  leaving  Paris ;  and  if  she  left  Paris,  I  should 
of  course  have  to  leave  it,  too.  French  she  un- 
derstaads  a  little,  as  you  know,  but  not  English, 
and" — the  Lady's  pink  deepened — "she  says  that 
English  is  the  one  language  of  which  she  cannot 


A  CHAPERONED  DEJEUNER      159 

even  guess  the  meaning  when  she  hears  it,  because 
English  is  the  one  language  that  can  be  spoken 
with  the  lips  only,  and  spoken  as  if  the  speaker's 
face  were  a  mask." 

He  said  he  should  have  thought  that  Chitta 
would  pick  it  up  from  her.  "Why,"  he  said,  "it 
comes  so  readily  to  you:  you  answered  in  it  in 
stinctively  that  time  when  I  first  saw  you.  Don't 
you  remember*?" 

"I  remember.  I  was  very  frightened.  Perhaps 
I  used  it  when  you  did  because  we  had  an  English 
governess  at  my  home  and  speak  it  much  in  the 
family.  We  speak  it  when  we  do  not  want  the 
servants  to  understand,  and  so  we  have  kept  it 
from  Chitta."  She  was  pouring  the  coffee.  "Tell 
me  truly:  do  I  indeed  speak  it  well*?" 

"Excellently.  Of  course  you  are  a  little  pre 
cise." 

"How  precise?" 

"Well,  you  said,  that  time,  'It  is  F;  we  gen 
erally  say  'It's  me' — like  the  French,  you  under 
stand." 


i6o  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

If  Princesses  could  pout,  he  would  have  said 
that  she  pouted. 

"But  I  was  right." 

"Not  entirely.    You  weren't  colloquial." 

"I  was  correct,"  she  insisted.  "  'It  is  P  is  cor 
rect.  My  grammar  says  that  the  verb  To  be' 
takes  the  same  case  after  it  as  before  it.  If  the 
Americans  say  something  else,  they  do  not  speak 
good  English." 

Cartaret  laughed. 

"The  English  say  it,  too." 

"Then,"  said  the  Lady  with  an  emphatic  nod, 
"the  English  also." 

It  was  a  simple  breakfast,  but  excellently 
cooked,  and  Cartaret  had  come  to  it  with  a 
healthy  hunger.  Chitta  was  present  only  in  the 
capacity  of  servant ;  but  managed  to  be  constantly 
within  ear-shot  and  generally  to  have  hostess  and 
guest  under  her  supervision.  He  felt  her  eyes 
upon  him  when  she  brought  in  the  highly-seasoned 
omelette,  when  she  replenished  the  coffee;  fre 
quently  he  even  caught  her  peeping  around  the 
screen  that  hid  the  stove.  It  was  a  marvel  that 


A  CHAPERONED  DEJEUNER      161 

she  could  cook  so  well,  since  she  was  forever  de 
serting  her  post.  She  made  Cartaret  blush  with 
the  memory  of  his  gift  to  her;  she  made  him  feel 
that  his  gift  had  only  increased  her  distrust ;  when 
he  fell  to  talking  about  himself,  he  made  light  of 
his  poverty,  so  that,  should  Chitta's  evident 
scruples  against  him  ever  lead  her  to  betray  what 
he  had  done,  the  Lady  might  not  feel  that  he  had 
sacrificed  too  much  in  giving  so  little. 

Nevertheless,  Cartaret  was  in  no  mood  for  com 
plaint:  he  was  sitting  opposite  his  Princess  and 
was  happy.  He  told  her  of  his  life  in  America, 
of  football  and  of  Broadway.  It  is  a  rare  thing  for 
a  lover  to  speak  of  his  sister,  but  Cartaret  even 
mentioned  Cora. 

"Is  she  afraid  of  you,  monsieur?"  asked  the 
Lady. 

"I  can't  imagine  Cora  being  afraid  of  any  mere 
man." 

"Ah,"  said  the  Lady;  "then  the  American 
brothers  are  different  from  brothers  in  my  country. 
I  have  a  brother.  I  think  he  is  the  handsomest 


162  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

and  bravest  man  in  the  world,  and  I  love  him. 
But  I  fear  him  too.  I  fear  him  very  much." 

"Your  own  brother?" 

The  Lady  was  giving  Cartaret  some  more  ome 
lette.  Cartaret,  holding  his  ready  plate,  saw  her 
glance  toward  the  rear  of  the  room  and  saw  her 
meet  the  eyes  of  Chitta,  whose  face  was  thrust 
around  the  screen. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Lady. 

It  struck  Cartaret  that  she  dropped  her  brother 
rather  quickly.  She  talked  of  other  things. 

"Your  name,"  she  said,  "is  English:  the  con 
cierge  gave  it  me.  It  is  English,  is  it  not*?" 

She  had  made  enquiries  about  him,  then:  Car 
taret  liked  that. 

"My  people  were  English,  long  ago,"  he  an 
swered.  He  grew  bold.  He  had  been  a  fool  not 
to  make  enquiries  about  her,  but  now  he  would 
make  them  at  first  hand.  "I  don't  know  your 
name,"  he  said. 

He  saw  her  glance  again  toward  the  rear  of  the 
room,  but  when  he  looked  he  saw  nobody.  The 
Lady  was  saying: 


A  CHAPERONED  DEJEUNER      163 

"Urola." 

It  helped  him  very  little.    He  said; 

"That  sounds  Spanish." 

Instantly  her  head  went  up.  There  was  blue 
fire  in  her  eyes  as  she  answered : 

"I  have  not  one  drop  of  Spanish  blood;  not 
one." 

He  had  meant  no  offense,  yet  it  was  clear  that 
he  came  dangerously  near  one.  He  made  haste  to 
apologize. 

"You  do  not  understand,"  she  said,  smiling  a 
little.  "In  my  country  we  hate  the  Spaniard." 

"What  is  your  country?" 

It  was  the  most  natural  of  questions — he  had 
put  it  once  before — yet  he  had  now  no  sooner 
uttered  it  than  he  felt  that  he  had  committed  an 
other  indiscretion.  This  time,  when  she  glanced 
at  the  rear  of  the  room,  he  distinctly  saw  Chitta's 
head  disappearing  behind  the  screen. 

"It  is  a  far  country,"  said  Mile.  Urola.  "It  is 
a  wild  country.  We  have  no  opportunities  to 
study  art  in  my  country.  So  I  came  to  Paris." 

After  that  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but 


164  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

to  be  interested  in  her  studies,  and  of  them  she 
told  him  willingly  enough.  She  was  very  am 
bitious;  she  worked  hard,  but  she  made,  she  said, 
little  progress. 

"The  people  that  have  no  feeling  for  any  art  I 
pity,"  she  said;  "but,  oh,  I  pity  more  those  who 
want  to  be  some  sort  of  artist  and  cannot  be !  The 
desire  without  the  talent,  that  kills." 

Chitta  was  coming  back,  bearing  aloft  a  fresh 
dish.  She  bore  it  with  an  air  more  haughty  than 
any  she  had  yet  assumed.  Directing  at  Cartaret  a 
glance  of  pride  and  scorn,  she  set  before  her  mis 
tress — Cartaret's  strawberries. 

The  Lady  clapped  her  pretty  hands.  She 
laughed  with  delight. 

"This,"  she  said,  "is  a  surprise!  I  had  not 
known  that  we  were  to  have  strawberries.  It  is 
so  like  Chitta.  She  is  so  kind  and  thoughtful, 
monsieur.  Always  she  has  for  me  some  surprise 
like  this." 

"It  is  a  surprise,"  said  Cartaret.  "I'm  sure  I'll 
enjoy  it.'* 


A  CHAPERONED  DEJEUNER      165 

She  served  the  berries  while  Chitta  stalked 
away. 

"I  find,"  confessed  the  Lady  in  English,  "that 
they  are  not  so  good  below  as  they  seemed  on 
the  top.  You  will  not  object?" 

Oh,  no:  Cartaret  wouldn't  object. 

"I  suppose,"  said  Mile.  Urola,  "that  I  should 
reprimand  her,  for  their  quality  is" — she  frowned 
at  the  berries — "inferior;  but  I  have  not  the  heart. 
Not  for  the  whole  world  could  I  hurt  her  feelings. 
She  is  both  so  kind  and  so  proud,  and  she  is  such 
a  marvel  of  economy.  You,  sir,  would  not  guess 
how  well  she  makes  me  fare  upon  how  small  an 
expense." 

After  breakfast,  she  showed  him  some  examples 
of  her  work.  It  had  delicacy  and  feeling.  An  un- 
prejudicd  critic  would  have  said  that  she  had 
much  to  learn  in  the  way  of  technique,  but  to  Car 
taret  every  one  of  her  sketches  was  a  marvel. 

"This,"  she  said,  again  in  English,  as  she  pro 
duced  a  drawing  from  the  bottom  of  her  bundle, 
"does  not  compare  with  what  you  did,  sir,  but  it 


166  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

is  not  the  work  of  a  flatterer,  since  it  is  my  own 
work.  It  is  I." 

It  was  a  rapid  sketch  of  herself  and  it  was,  as 
she  had  said,  the  work  of  no  flatterer. 

"I  like  that  least  of  all,"  declared  Cartaret,  in 
the  language  to  which  she  had  returned;  but  he 
wanted  her  to  forget  those  portraits  he  had  made. 
He  caught,  consequently,  at  trifles.  "Why  don't 
you  say  'It's  me'  ?"  he  asked. 

She  clasped  her  hands  behind  her  and  stood 
looking  up  at  him  with  her  chin  tilted  and  her  un 
conscious  lips  close  to  his. 

"I  say  what  is  right,  sir,"  she  challenged. 

He  laughed,  but  shook  his  head. 

"I  know  better,"  said  he. 

"No,"  she  said.  She  was  smiling,  but  serious. 
"It  is  I  that  am  right.  And  even  if  I  learned  that 
I  were  wrong,  I  would  now  not  change.  It  would 
be  a  surrender  to  you." 

Cartaret  found  his  color  high.  His  mind  was 
putting  into  her  words  a  meaning  he  was  afraid 
she  might  see  that  he  put  there. 

"Not  to  me,"  he  said. 


A  CHAPERONED  DEJEUNER      167 

"Yes,  yes,  to  you!" 

Surrender !  What  a  troublesome  word  she  was 
using ! 

The  ehin  went  higher ;  the  lips  came  nearer. 

"A  complete  surrender,  sir."  Quickly  she 
stepped  back.  If  she  had  read  his  face  rightly, 
her  face  gave  no  hint  of  it,  but  she  was  at  once 
her  former  self.  "And  that  I  will  never  do,"  she 
said,  reverting  to  French. 

It  was  Cartaret's  turn  to  want  to  change  the 
subject.  He  did  it  awkwardly. 

"Have  you  been  in  the  Bois*?"  he  asked. 

No,  she  had  not  been  in  the  Bois.  She  loved 
nature  too  well  to  care  for  artificial  scenery. 

"But  the  Bois  is  the  sort  of  art  that  improves 
on  nature,"  he  protested;  "at  least,  so  the  Parisian 
will  tell  you ;  and,  really,  it  is  beautiful  now.  You 
ought  to  see  it.  I  was  there  last  night." 

"You  go  alone  into  the  Bois  in  the  night?  Is 
not  that  dangerous*?" 

He  could  not  tell  whether  she  was  mocking  him. 
He  said : 


i68  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"It  isn't  dangerous  in  the  afternoons,  at  any 
rate.  Let  me  take  you  there." 

She  hesitated.  Chitta  was  clattering  dishes  in 
the  improvised  kitchen. 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  Lady. 

Cartaret's  heart  bounded. 

"Now?"  he  asked.  > 

The  dishes  clattered  mightily. 

"How  prompt  you  are!"  she  laughed.  "No, 
not  now.  I  have  my  lessons." 

"To-morrow,  then?" 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  Lady  of  the  Rose.  "Per 
haps " 

Cartaret's  face  brightened. 

"That  is,"  explained  his  hostess,  "if  you  will 
not  try  to  teach  me  English,  sir." 


CHAPTER  X 

AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE  AND  A  FULL 
HEART,  IN  THE  COURSE  OF  WHICH  THE  AU 
THOR  BARELY  ESCAPES  TELLING  A  VERY  OLD 
STORY 

C'est  etat  bizarre  de  folie  tendre  qui  fait  que  nous 
n'avons  plus  de  pensee  que  pour  des  actes  d'adoration. 
On   devient    veritablement    un    possede    que    hante    une 
femme,  et  rien  n'existe  plus  pour  nous  a  cote  d'elle. 
— De  Maupassant:  Un  Soir, 

THE  Lady's  "perhaps"  meant  "yes,"  it  seemed, 
for,  when  Cartaret  called  for  her  the  next  day, 
he  found  her  ready  to  go  to  the  Bois,  and  not  the 
Lady  only:  hovering  severely  in  the  immediate 
background,  like  a  thunder-cloud  over  a  Spring 
landscape,  was  Chitta,  wrapped  in  a  shawl  of 
marvelous  lace,  doubtless  from  her  own  country, 
and  crowned  with  a  brilliant  bonnet  unmistakably 
procured  at  some  second-hand  shop  off  the  rue  St. 
Jacques.  The  Lady  noticed  his  expression  of  be 
wilderment  and  appeared  a  little  annoyed  by  it. 

169 


170  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "Chitta  accompanies  us." 

Cartaret  had  to  submit. 

"Certainly,"  said  he. 

He  proposed  a  taxi-cab  to  the  Bois — he  had 
visited  the  Mont  de  Piete — but  the  Lady  would 
not  hear  of  it;  she  was  used  to  walking;  she  was  a 
good  walker;  she  liked  to  walk. 

"But  it's  miles,"  Cartaret  protested. 

"It  is  nothing,"  said  she. 

Her  utmost  concession  was  to  go  by  tram  to 
the  Arc. 

It  was  a  beautiful  day  in  the  Bois,  with  half 
of  Paris  there:  carriages  from  the  Faubourg  St. 
Germain,  motors  of  the  smart  set,  hired  convey 
ances  full  of  tourists.  The  trees  were  a  tender 
green;  the  footways  crowded  by  the  Parisian 
bourgeois,  making  a  day  of  it  with  his  family. 
Slim  officers  walked,  in  black  jackets  and  red 
trousers,  the  calves  of  their  legs  compressed  in 
patent-leather  riding-leggings ;  women  of  the  half- 
world  showed  brilliant  toilettes  that  had  been 
copied  by  ladies  of  the  haut  monde,  who,  driven 
past,  wore  them  not  quite  so  well.  Grotesquely 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     171 

clipped  French  poodles  rode  in  the  carriages,  and 
Belgian  police-dogs  in  the  automobiles ;  thin-nosed 
collies  frolicked  after  their  masters;  here  and 
there  a  tailless  English  sheep-dog  waddled  by, 
or  a  Russian  boar-hound  paced  sedately;  children 
played  on  the  grass  and  dashed  across  the  paths 
with  a  suddenness  that  threatened  the  safety  of 
the  adult  pedestrians. 

Cartaret  led  the  way  into  the  less  frequented 
portions  of  the  great  park  beyond  the  Lac  In- 
ferieur.  The  Lady  was  pleasantly  beside  him, 
Chitta  unpleasantly  at  his  heels. 

"Don't  you  admit  it's  worth  coming  to  see?" 
he  began  in  English.  "When  I  was  here,  under 
the  stars,  the  other  night " 

"You  must  speak  French,"  the  Lady  smilingly 
interrupted.  "You  must  remember  my  promise 
to  Chitta." 

Cartaret  ground  his  teeth.  He  spoke  thereafter 
in  French,  but  he  lowered  his  voice  so  as  to 
be  sure  that  Chitta  could  not  understand  him. 

"I  was  thinking  then  that  you  ought  to  see 
it."  He  took  his  courage  in  both  hands.  "I  was 


172  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

wishing  very  much  that  you  were  with  me."  His 
brown  eyes  sought  hers  steadily.  "May  I  tell 
you  all  that  I  was  wishing*?" 

"Not  now,"  she  said. 

Her  tone  was  conventional  enough,  but  in  her 
face  he  read — and  he  was  sure  that  she  had  meant 
him  to  read — a  something  deeper. 

He  put  it  to  her  flatly :    "When?" 

She  was  looking  now  at  the  fresh  green  leaves 
above  them.  When  she  looked  down,  she  was 
etill  smiling,  but  her  smile  was  wistful. 

"When  dreams  come  true,  perhaps,"  she  said. 
"Do  dreams  ever  come  true  in  the  American 
United  States,  monsieur*?" 

The  spell  of  the  Spring  was  dangerously  upon 
them  both.  Cartaret's  breath  came  quickly. 

"I  wish — I  wish  that  you  were  franker  with 
me,"  he  said. 

"But  am  I  ever  anything  except  frank4?" 

"You're — I  know  I  haven't  any  right  to  expect 
your  confidence :  you  scarcely  know  me.  But  why 
won't  you  tell  me  even  where  you  come  from  and 
who  you  are*?" 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     173 

"You  know  my  name." 

"I  know  a  part  of  it." 

"My  little  name  is — it  is  Vitoria." 

<<V-i-t-t-o-r-i-a?'  he  spelled. 

"Yes,  but  with  one  %'  "  the  Lady  said. 

"Vitoria  Urola,"  he  repeated. 

She  raised  her  even  brows. 

"Oh,  yes;  of  course,"  said  she. 

Somehow  it  struck  him  that  its  sound  was 
scarcely  familiar  to  her: 

"Do  I  pronounce  it  badly?" 

"No,  no:  you  are  quite  correct." 

"But  not  quite  to  be  trusted?" 

She  looked  at  him  doubtfully.  She  looked  at 
Chitta  and  gave  her  a  quick  order  that  sent  the 
duenna  reluctantly  ahead  of  them.  Then  the 
Lady  put  her  gloved  hand  on  Cartaret's  arm. 

"I  want  you  to  be  my  friend,"  she  said. 

"I  am  your  friend,"  he  protested:  "that  is  what 
I  want  you  to  believe.  That  is  why  I  ask  you 
to  be  frank  with  me.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  just 
enough  to  let  me  help — to  let  me  protect  you.  If 
you  are  in  danger,  I  want " 


174  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"You  might  be  my  danger." 

"I1?" 

She  bowed  assent. 

"No,  do  not  ask  me  why.  I  shall  not  tell  you. 
I  shall  never  tell  you — no  more,"  she  smiled,  "than 
I  shall  ever  say  for  you  'it's  me.'  It  is  very  kind 
of  you  to  want  to  be  my  friend.  I  am  alone  here 
in  Paris,  except  for  poor  Chitta,  and  I  shall  be 
glad  if  you  will  be  my  friend;  but  it  will  not  be 
very  easy." 

"It  would  be  hard  to  be  anything  else." 

"Not  for  you :  you  are  too  curious.  My  friend 
must  let  me  be  just  what  I  am  here.  All  that  I 
was  before  I  came  to  Paris,  all  that  I  may  be 
after  I  leave  it,  he  must  ask  nothing  about." 

Cartaret  looked  long  into  her  eyes. 

"All  right,"  he  said  at  last.  "I  am  glad  to  have 
that  much.  And — thank  you." 

He  stuck  to  his  side-  of  their  agreement;  not 
only  during  that  afternoon  in  the  Bois,  but  during 
the  days  that  followed.  He  worked  hard.  He 
turned  out  one  really  good  picture,  and  he  turned 
out  many  successful  pot-boilers.  He  would  not 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     175 

impose  these  on  Fourget,  because  old  Fourget  had 
already  been  too  kind  to  him;  but  Lepoittevin 
wanted  such  stuff,  and  Cartaret  let  him  have  it. 

Cartaret  worked  gladly  now,  because  he  was, 
however  little  she  might  guess  it,  working  for 
Vitoria.  He  had  left  for  himself  precisely  enough 
to  keep  him  alive,  but  every  third  or  fourth  day 
he  would  have  the  happiness  of  slipping  a  little 
silver  into  China's  horny  palm:  Chitta  came 
readily  to  the  habit  of  waiting  for  him  on  the 
stair.  He  grew  happier  day  by  day,  and  looked — 
as  who  does  not*? — the  better  for  it.  He  sought 
out  Seraphin  and  Varachon;  he  bought  brandy 
for  Houdon ;  went  to  hear  Devignes  sing,  and  once 
he  had  Armand  Gamier  to  luncheon.  He  re 
warded  the  hurdy-gurdy  so  splendidly  that  it  was 
a  nightly  visitor  to  the  rue  du  Val  de  Grace:  the 
entire  street  was  whistling  "Annie  Laurie." 

Seraphin  guessed  the  truth. 

"Ah,  my  friend,"  he  nodded,  "that  foolish  one, 
Houdon,  says  that  you  have  again  decided  to 
spend  of  your  income :  J  know  that  you  are  some 
how  making  largess  with  your  heart." 


176  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

Cartaret  took  frequent  walks  with  Vitoria, 
Chitta  always  two  feet  behind,  never  closer,  but 
never  farther  away.  Often  he  saw  the  Lady  to 
her  classes,  more  frequently  they  walked  to  the 
He  Saint  Louis,  or  between  the  old  houses  of  the 
rue  des  Francs  Bourgeois;  to  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes,  or  into  the  Cours  de  Dragon  or  St.  Ger 
main  des  Pres:  Chitta's  unsophisticated  mind 
should  have  been  improved  by  a  thorough  knowl 
edge  of  picturesque  Paris. 

He  was  guilty  of  trying  to  elude  the  guardian 
— guilty  of  some  rather  shabby  tricks  in  that  di 
rection — and  he  suffered  the  more  in  conscience  be 
cause  they  were  almost  uniformly  unsuccessful. 
More  than  once,  however,  he  reached  a  state  of 
exaltation  in  which  he  forgot  Chitta,  cared  noth 
ing  about  Chitta,  and  then  he  felt  nearer  Heaven. 

On  one  such  occasion  he  was  actually  nearer 
than  the  site  usually  ascribed  to  the  Celestial  City. 
With  Vitoria  and  her  guardian  he  had  climbed — 
it  was  at  his  own  malign  suggestion — to  Mont- 
martre  and,  since  Chitta  feared  the  funicular,  had 
toiled  up  the  last  steep  ascent  into  Notre  Dame  de 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     177 

Sacre  Coeur.  Chitta's  piety — or  her  exhaustion — 
kept  her  long  upon  her  knees  in  that  Byzantine 
nave,  and  the  Lady  and  Cartaret  had  a  likely 
flying-start  up  the  stairs  to  the  tower.  Cartaret 
possessed  the  wit  to  say  nothing,  but  he  noticed 
that  Vitoria's  blue  eyes  shone  with  a  light  of  ad 
venture,  which  tacitly  approved  of  the  escapade, 
and  that  her  step  was  as  quick  as  his  own  when 
Chitta's  slower  step,  heavy  breathing  and  mut 
tered  imprecations  became  audible  below  them. 

"I'm  sure  the  old  girl  will  have  to  rest  on  the 
way  up,  for  all  her  spryness,"  thought  Cartaret. 
"If  we  can  only  hold  this  pace,  we  ought  to  have 
five  minutes  alone  on  the  ramparts." 

They  had  quite  five  minutes  and,  no  other  sight 
seers  being  about,  they  were  quite  alone.  Below 
them,  under  a  faintly  blue  haze,  Paris  lay  like 
an  outspread  map,  with  here  and  there  a  church 
steeple  rising  above  the  level  of  the  page.  The 
roof  of  the  Opera,  the  gilt  dome  of  Napoleon's 
tomb  and  the  pointing  finger  of  the  Tour  Eifel 
were  immediately  individualized,  but  all  the  rest 
of  the  city  merged  into  a  common  maze  about  the 


178  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

curving  Seine  with  the  red  sun  setting  beyond  the 
He  de  Puteaux. 

Vitoria  leaned  on  the  rampart.  She  was  pant 
ing  a  little  from  her  climb;  her  cheeks  were  flushed, 
and  her  whole  face  glowing. 

"It  is  as  if  we  were  gods  on  some  star,"  she  said, 
"looking  down  upon  a  world  that  is  strange  to  us." 

She  was  speaking  in  English.  Cartaret  bent 
closer.  Pledges  of  mere  friendship  ceased,  for  the 
moment,  to  appear  of  primary  importance:  he 
.wanted,  suddenly,  to  make  the  most  of  a  little 
time. 

"Am  I  never  to  see  you  alone?"  he  asked. 

She  forsook  the  view  of  Paris  to  give  him  a 
second's  glance.  There  was  something  roguish 
in  it. 

"Chitta,"  she  said,  "has  not  yet  arrived." 

He  felt  himself  a  poor  hand  at  love-making. 
Its  language  was  upon  his  tongue — perhaps  the 
slower  now  because  he  so  much  meant  what  he 
wanted  to  say.  His  jaw  set,  the  lines  at  his  mouth 
deepened. 

"I've   never    thought   much,"    he   blundered, 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     179 

"about  some  of  the  things  that  most  fellows  think 
a  lot  about.  I  mean  I've  never — at  least  not  till 
lately — thought  much  about  love  and — "  he 
choked  on  the  word — "and  marriage;  but " 

She  cut  him  short.  Her  speech  was  slow  and 
deliberate.  Her  eyes  were  on  his,  and  in  them 
he  saw  something  at  once  firm  and  sad. 

"Nor  I,  my  friend,"  she  was  saying:  "it  is  a 
subject  that  I  am  forbidden  to  think  about." 

If  she  conveyed  a  command,  he  disobeyed  it. 

"Then,"  he  said,  "I  wish  you'd  think  about  it 
now." 

"I  am  forbidden  to  think  about  it,"  she  con 
tinued,  "and  I  do  not  think  about  it  because  I 
shall  not  marry  any  one — at  least  not  any  one  that 
-that  I " 

Her  voice  dropped  into  silence.  She  turned 
from  him  to  the  sunset  over  the  gray  city. 

Cartaret's  exaltation  left  him  more  suddenly 
than  it  had  come. 

"Any  one  that  you  care  for?"  he  asked  in  a 
lowered  tone. 

Still  facing  the  city,  she  bowed  assent. 


i8o  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"But,  in  Heaven's  name,  whom  else  should  you 
marry  except  somebody  that  you  care  for*?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Look  here,"  urged  Cartaret,  "you — you're  not 
engaged,  are  you"?" 

She  faced  him  then,  still  with  that  something 
at  once  firm  and  sad  in  her  fine  eyes. 

"No,"  she  said;  but  he  must  have  shown  a  lit 
tle  of  the  hope  he  found  in  that  monosyllable,  for 
she  went  on:  "Yet  I  shall  never  marry  any  one 
that  I  care  for.  That  is  all  that  I  may  tell  you — 
my  friend" 

As  a  hurrying  tug  puffs  up  to  the  liner  that  it  is 
to  tow  safely  into  port,  Chitta  puffed  up  to  her 
mistress.  She  met  a  Cartaret,  could  she  have 
guessed  it,  as  hopeless  as  she  wanted  him  to  be. 

He  did  his  best  to  put  from  him  all  desire  to 
unravel  the  mystery,  and  for  some  days  he  was 
again  content  to  remain  Vitoria's  unquestioning 
friend.  She  had  told  him  that  she  could  not  marry 
him :  nothing  could  have  been  plainer.  What  more 
could  he  gain  by  further  enquiry  *?  Did  she  mean 
that  she  loved  somebody  else  whom  she  could  not 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     181 

marry*?  Or  did  she  mean  that  she  loved,  but 
could  not  marry — him  ?  Cartaret  highly  resolved 
to  take  what  good  the  gods  provided:  to  remain 
her  friend ;  to  work  on,  in  secret,  for  her  comfort, 
and  to  be  as  happy  as  he  could  in  so  much  of  her 
companionship  as  she  permitted  him.  He  would 
never  tell  her  that  he  loved  her. 

And  then,  very  early  on  an  evening  in  May, 
Destiny,  who  had  been  somnolent  under  the  soft 
influence  of  Spring,  awoke  and  once  more  took  a 
hand  in  Cartaret's  affairs  and  those  of  the  Lady 
of  the  Rose. 

Cartaret  had  just  returned  from  a  mission  to  Le- 
poittevin's  shop  and,  having  there  disposed  of  a 
particularly  bad  picture,  had  put  money  in  his 
purse:  Chitta  was  waiting  on  the  stairs  and  ac 
cepted  the  bulk  of  his  earnings  with  her  usual  bad 
grace.  He  went  into  his  studio,  leaving  the  door 
ajar.  The  cool  breeze  of  the  Spring  twilight  flut 
tered  the  curtains ;  it  bore  upward  the  laughter  of 
the  concierge's  children,  playing  at  diavolo  in  the 
garden ;  it  brought  the  fainter  notes  of  the  hurdy- 


i82  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

gurdy,  grinding  out  its  music  somewhere  farther 
down  the  street. 

Somebody  was  tapping  at  the  door. 

"Who  is  it?"  he  called. 

"It's — 7,"  came  the  answer,  with  the  least  per 
ceptible  pause  before  the  pronoun.  "May  I  come 
in?" 

"Do,"  he  said,  and  rose. 

Before  he  could  reach  the  door,  Vitoria  had 
entered,  closing  it  carefully  behind  her.  He  could 
see  that  she  was  in  her  student's  blouse;  tendrils 
of  her  hair,  slightly  disarrayed,  curled  about  the 
nape  of  her  white  neck;  her  delicate  nostrils  were 
extended  and  her  manner  strangely  quiet. 

"This  is  good  of  you,"  he  gratefully  began.  "I 
didn't  expect " 

"What  is  this  that  you  have  been  doing?" 

Her  tone,  though  low,  was  hasty.  Cartaret  be- 
wilderedly  realized  that  she  was  angry.  Before 
he  could  reply,  she  had  repeated  her  question : 

"Sir,  what  is  this  that  you  have  been  doing?" 

"I  don't  understand."     He  had  drawn  away 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     1 83 

from  her,  his  face  unmistakably  expressive  of  his 
puzzled  pain. 

"You  have  been oh,  that  I  should  live  to 

say  it ! — you  have  been  giving  money  to  my  maid." 

He  drew  back  farther  now.  He  was  detected; 
he  was  ashamed. 

"Yes,"  he  confessed;  "I  thought —  You  see,  she 
gave  me  to  understand  that  you  were — were  poor." 

"None  of  my  family  has  ever  taken  charity  of 
any  man!" 

"Charity  ?"  He  did  not  dare  to  look  at  her,  but 
he  knew  just  how  high  she  was  holding  her  head 
and  just  how  her  eyes  were  flashing.  "It  wasn't 
that.  Believe  me — please  believe  me  when  I  say 
it  wasn't  that.  It  never  struck  me  in  that  way." 
He  was  on  the  point  of  telling  her  how  he  had 
caught  Chitta  red-handed  in  a  theft,  and  how  this 
had  led  to  his  enlightenment;  but  he  realized  in 
time  that  such  an  explanation  would  only  deepen 
the  wound  that  he  had  inflicted  on  the  Lady's 
pride.  "I  merely  thought,"  he  concluded,  "that  it 
was  one  comrade — one  neighbor — helping  an 
other." 


184  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"How  much  have  you  given  that  wretched 
woman  ?" 

"I  haven't  the  least  idea." 

"You  must  know!"  She  stamped  her  foot. 
"Or  are  you,  after  all,  one  of  those  rich  Americans 
that  do  not  have  to  count  their  money,  and  that 
are  proud  of  insulting  the  people  of  older  and 
poorer  countries  by  flinging  it  at  them*?" 

It  was  a  bitter  thing  to  say.  He  received  it 
with  head  still  bent,  and  his  answer  was  scarcely 
a  whisper : 

"I  am  not  quite  rich." 

"Then  count.  Recollect  yourself,  sir,  and 
count.  Tell  me,  and  you  shall  be  repaid.  Within 
three  days  you  shall  be  repaid." 

It  never  occurred  to  him  further  to  humiliate 
her  by  seeking  sympathy  through  a  reference  to  his 
own  poverty.  He  looked  up.  In  her  clenched 
hands  and  parted  lips,  in  her  hot  eyes  and  face,  he 
saw  the  tokens  of  the  blow  that  he  had  dealt  her. 
He  came  toward  her  with  outstretched  hands,  pe 
titioning. 

"Can't  you  guess  why  I  did  this?"  he  asked  her. 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     1 85 

His  amazement,  even  his  sorrow,  left  him.  In 
their  place  was  only  the  sublimation  of  a  worthy 
tenderness,  the  masterfulness  of  a  firm  resolve. 
His  face  was  tense.  "Listen,"  he  said:  "I  don't 
want  you  to  answer  me;  I  wouldn't  say  this  if  I 
were  going  to  allow  you  to  make  any  reply.  I 
don't  want  pity;  I  don't  deserve  it.  Anything  else 
I  wouldn't  ask,  because  I  don't  deserve  anything 
else,  either,  and  don't  hope  for  it.  I  just  want  to 
make  my  action  clear  to  you.  Perhaps  I  should 
have  done  for  any  neighbor  what  I  did  for — what 
little  I  have  been  doing;  I  trust  so;  I  don't  know. 
But  the  reason  I  did  it  in  this  case  was  a  reason 
that  I've  never  had  in  all  my  life  before.  Remem 
ber,  I'm  hopeless  and  I  shan't  let  you  reply  to 
me:  I  did  this  because" — his  unswerving  glance 
was  on  hers  now — "because  I  love  you." 

But  she  did  reply.  At  first  she  seemed  unable 
to  credit  him,  but  then  her  face  became  scarlet 
and  her  eyes  blazed. 

"Love  me!  And  you  do  this4?  Yes,  sir,  insult 
me  by  contributing — and  through  my  servant — to 
my  support !  If  I  had  not  come  back  unexpectedly 


i86  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

but  now  and  found  her  counting  more  silver  than 
I  knew  she  could  by  right  possess — if  I  had  not 
frightened  her  into  a  confession — it  might  have 
gone  on  for  months."  The  Lady  stopped  abrupt 
ly.  "How  long  has  it  been  going  on?" 

"I  tell  you  that  I  have  no  idea." 

"But  once,  sir,  was  enough!  You  insult  me 
with  your  money,  and  when  I  ask  you  why  you 
do  it,  you  answer  that  you  love  me.  Love !" 

She  uttered  the  concluding  word  with  an  in 
tensity  of  scorn  that  lashed  him.  She  turned  to 
go,  but,  as  on  the  occasion  of  their  first  meeting, 
he  stepped  forward  and  barred  the  way. 

"You  have  no  right  to  put  that  construction  on 
what  I  say.  Our  points  of  view  are  different." 

"Yes — thank  the  Holy  Saints  they  are  dif 
ferent!" 

"I  shall  try  to  understand  yours ;  I  beg  you  to 
try  to  understand  mine." 

Their  eyes  met  again.  In  his  it  was  impossible 
for  her  not  to  read  the  truth.  Slowly  she  lowered 
hers. 

"In  my  country,"  she  said,  more  softly  now,  but 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     187 

still  proudly,  "love  is  another  sort  of  thing.  In 
my  country  I  should  have  said :  'If  you  respect  me, 
sir,  you  perhaps  love  me ;  if  you  do  not  respect  me, 
it  is  out  of  the  question  that  you  should  love  me.' ' 
"Respect  you?"  This  was  a  challenge  to  his 
love  that  he  could  not  leave  unanswered.  His 
voice  rose  fresh  and  clear.  He  was  no  longer  un 
der  the  necessity  of  seeking  words :  they  leaped,  liv 
ing,  to  his  lips.  "Respect  you"?  Good  God,  I've 
been  worshiping  the  very  thought  of  you  from 
the  first  glimpse  of  you  I  ever  had.  This  miserable 
room  has  been  a  holy  place  to  me  because  you 
have  twice  been  in  it.  It's  been  a  holy  place, 
because,  from  the  moment  I  first  found  you  here, 
it  has  been  a  place  where  I  dreamed  of  you.  Night 
and  day  I've  dreamed  of  you ;  and  yet  have  I  ever 
once  knowingly  done  you  any  harm,  trespassed  or 
presumed  on  your  kindness?  I've  seen  no  pure 
morning  without  thinking  of  you,  no  beautiful 
sunset  without  remembering  you;  you've  been  the 
harmony  of  every  bar  of  music,  of  every  bird- 
song,  that  I've  heard.  When  you  were  gone,  the 
world  was  empty  for  me;  when  I  was  with  you, 


i88  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

all  the  rest  of  the  world  was  nothing,  and  less 
than  nothing.  Respect  you?  Why,  I  should  have 
cut  off  my  right  hand  before  I  let  you  even  guess 
what  you've  discovered  to-day !" 

As  he  spoke,  her  whole  attitude  altered.  Her 
hands  were  still  clenched  at  her  sides,  but  clenched 
now  in  another  emotion. 

"Is — is  this  true?"  she  asked.  Her  voice  was 
very  low. 

"It  is  true,"  he  answered. 

"And  yet" — she  seemed  to  be  not  so  much  ad 
dressing  him  as  trying  to  quiet  an  accuser  in  her 
own  heart —  "I  never  spoke  one  word  that  could 
give  you  any  hope." 

"Not  one,"  he  gravely  assented.  "I  never 
asked  for  hope;  I  don't  expect  it  now." 

"And  it  is — it  is  really  true?"  she  murmured. 

Again  he  spoke  in  answer  to  what  she  seemed 
rather  to  address  to  her  own  heart : 

"Because  you  found  out  what  I'd  done,  I  wanted 
you  to  know  why  I'd  done  it — and  no  more.  If 
you  hadn't  found  out  about  Chitta,  I  would  never 
have  told  you — this." 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     189 

She  tried  to  smile,  but  something  caught  the 
smile  and  broke  it.  With  a  sudden  movement, 
she  raised  her  white  hands  to  her  burning  face. 

"Oh,"  she  whispered,  "why  did  you  tell  me? 
Why?" 

"Because  you  accused  me,  because "  He 

could  not  stand  there  and  see  her  suffer.  "I've 
been  a  brute,"  he  said;  "I've  been  a  bungling 
brute." 

"No,  no!"    She  refused  to  hear  him. 

He  drew  her  hands  from  before  her  face  and  re 
vealed  it,  the  underlip  indrawn,  the  blue  eyes 
swimming  in  hushed  tears,  all  humbled  in  a  wist 
ful  appeal. 

"A  brute!"  he  repeated. 

"No,  you  are  not!"  Her  fingers  closed  on  his. 
"You  are  splendid;  you  are  fine;  you  are  all  that 
I — that  I  ever " 

"Vitoria!" 

Out  in  the  rue  du  Val  de  Grace  that  rattletrap 
French  hurdy-gurdy  struck  up  "Annie  Laurie." 
It  played  badly ;  its  time  was  uncertain  and  its  con 
ception  of  the  tune  was  questionable ;  yet  Cartaret 


190  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

thought  that,  save  for  her  voice,  he  had  never 
heard  diviner  melody.  She  was  looking  up  at  him, 
her  hands  clasped  in  his  over  his  pounding  heart, 
her  eyes  like  altar-fires,  her  lips  sacrosanct,  and, 
wreathing  her  upturned  face,  seeming  to  float 
upon  the  twilight,  hovered,  fresh  from  sunlit 
mountain-crests  of  virgin  snow,  the  subtle  and 
haunting  perfume  that  was  like  a  poem  in  a  tongue 
unknown :  the  perfume  of  the  Azure  Rose. 

"Vitoria!"  he  began  again.  "You  don't  mean 
that  you — that  you " 

She  interrupted  him  with  a  sharp  cry.  She 
freed  her  hands.  She  went  by  him  to  the  door. 

Her  voice,  as  she  paused  there,  was  broken,  but 
brave : 

"You  do  not  understand.  How  could  you? 
And  I  cannot  tell  you.  Only — only  it  must  be 
'Good-by.'  Often  I  have  wondered  how  Love 
would  come  to  me,  and  whether  he  would  come 
singing,  as  he  comes  to  most,  or  with  a  sword, 
as  he  comes  to  some."  She  opened  the  door  and 
stepped  across  the  threshold.  She  was  closing  it 


AN  ACCOUNT  OF  AN  EMPTY  PURSE     191 

upon  herself  when  she  spoke,  but  she  held  it  open 
and  kept  her  eyes  on  Cartaret  until  she  ended.  "I 
know  now,  my  beloved:  he  has  come  with  a 
sword." 


CHAPTER  XI 

TELLS  HOW  CARTARET'S  FORTUNE  TURNED  TWICE 
IN  A  FEW  HOURS  AND  HOW  HE  FOUND  ONE 
THING  AND  LOST  ANOTHER 

A  man  is  rich  in  proportion  to  the  things  he  can 
afford  to  let  alone. — Thoreau:  Walden. 

A  GREAT  deal  has  been  said,  to  not  much  pur 
pose,  about  the  vagaries  of  the  feminine  heart; 
but  its  masculine  counterpart  is  equally  mysteri 
ous.  The  seat  of  Charlie  Cartaret's  emotions 
furnishes  a  case  in  point. 

Cartaret  had  resolved  never  to  tell  Vitoria  that 
he  loved  her,  and  he  told  her.  Similarly,  when 
he  told  her,  he  sought  to  make  it  clear  to  her,  quite 
sincerely,  that  he  nursed  no  hope  of  winning  her 
for  his  wife,  and,  now  that  she  was  gone,  hope 
took  possession  of  his  breast  and  brought  with  it 
determination.  Why  not*?  Had  she  not  amaz 
ingly  confessed  her  love  for  him'?  That  left  him, 

192 


CARTARET'S  FORTUNE  TURNED  193 

as  he  saw  it,  no  reason  for  abnegation;  it  made 
sacrifice  wrong  for  them  both.  The  secret  dif 
ficulty  at  which  she  hinted  became  something  that 
it  was  now  as  much  his  duty,  as  it  was  his  highest 
desire,  to  remove.  For  the  rest,  though  he  could 
now  no  more  than  previously  consider  offering  her 
a  union  with  a  man  condemned  to  a  lifelong 
poverty,  there  remained  for  him  no  task  save  the 
simple  one  of  acquiring  affluence.  What  could 
seem  easier — for  a  young  man  in  love? 

The  more  he  thought  about  it,  the  more  obvious 
his  course  became.  During  all  his  boyhood,  art 
had  been  his  single  passion;  during  all  his  resi 
dence  in  Paris  he  had  flung  the  best  that  was  in 
him  upon  the  altar  of  his  artistic  ambition;  but 
now,  without  a  single  pang  of  regret,  he  resolved 
to  give  up  art  forever.  He  would  see  Vitoria  on 
the  morrow  and  come  to  a  practical  understand 
ing  with  her:  was  he  not  always  a  practical  man"? 
Then  he  would  reopen  negotiation  with  his  uncle 
and  ask  for  a  place  in  the  elder  Cartaret's  business. 
Perhaps  it  would  not  even  be  necessary  for  him 
to  return  to  America :  he  had  the  brilliant  idea  that 


194  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

his  uncle's  business — which  was  to  say,  the  great 
monopoly  of  which  his  uncle's  holdings  were  a 
small  part — had  never  been  properly  "pushed" 
in  France,  and  that  Charles  Cartaret  was  the  man 
of  all  men  to  push  it.  The  mystery  that  dear 
Vitoria  made  of  some  private  obstacle  ?  That,  of 
course,  was  but  the  exaggeration  of  a  sensitive 
girl ;  it  was  the  long  effect  of  some  parental  com 
mand  or  childish  vow.  He  had  only  to  wrest 
from  her  the  statement  of  it  in  order  to  prove  it  so. 
It  was  some  unpractical  fancy  wholly  beneath  the 
regard  of  a  practical,  and  now  wholly  assured, 
man  of  affairs. 

By  way  of  beginning  a  conservative  business- 
career,  Charlie  went  to  the  front  window  and,  as 
he  had  done  one  day  not  long  since,  emptied  his 
pockets  for  the  delight  of  the  hurdy-gurdy  grinder. 
Then,  singing  under  his  breath,  and  inwardly 
blessing  every  pair  of  lovers  that  he  passed,  he 
went  out  for  a  long  walk  in  the  twilight. 

He  walked  along  the  Quai  D'Orsay,  beside 
which  the  crowded  little  passenger-steamers  were 
tearing  the  silver  waters  of  the  Seine ;  crossed  the 


CARTARET'S  FORTUNE  TURNED   195 

white  Pont  de  PAlma;  struck  through  the  Tro- 
cadero  gardens,  and  so,  by  the  rue  de  Passy  and 
the  shaded  Avenue  Ingrez,  came  to  the  railway 
bridge,  crossed  it  and  strolled  along  the  Allee  des 
Fortifications.  He  walked  until  the  night  over 
took  him,  and  only  then  turned  back  through 
Auteuil  and  over  the  Pont  Crenelle  toward  home. 

Alike  in  the  perfumed  shadows  beneath  the 
trees  and  under  the  yellow  lamps  of  the  Boulevard 
de  Mont  Parnasse,  he  walked  upon  the  clouds  of 
resolution.  The  city  that  has  in  her  tender  keep 
ing  the  dust  of  many  lovers,  cradled  him  and 
drew  him  forward.  Her  soft  breath  fanned  his 
cheek,  her  sweet  voice  whispered  in  his  ears : 

"Trust  me  and  obey  me !  Did  I  not  know  and 
shelter  Gabrielle  d'Estrees  and  her  royal  suitor1? 
Have  I  not  had  a  care  for  DeMusset  and  for 
Heine  ?  In  that  walled  garden  over  there,  Balzac 
dreamed  of  Mme.  Hanska.  Along  this  street 
Chopin  wandered  with  George  Sand." 

That  whisper  followed  him  to  his  room,  still 
thrilling  with  Vitoria's  visit.  It  charmed  him 
into  a  wonderful  sense  of  her  nearness,  into  a 


196  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

belief  that  he  was  keeping  ward  over  her  as  long 
as  he  sat  by  his  windows  and  watched  the  stars 
go  down  and  the  pink  dawn  climb  the  eastern 
sky.  It  lulled  him  at  last  to  sleep  with  his  head 
upon  his  arms  and  his  arms  upon  the  mottled 
table. 

He  overslept.  It  must  have  been  nearly  noon 
when  he  woke,  and  then  he  was  wakened  only  by 
a  pounding  at  the  door  of  his  room.  Fat  Mme. 
Ref  rogne  had  brought  him  a  cable-message.  When 
she  had  gone,  he  opened  it,  surprised  at  once  by  its 
extravagant  length.  It  was  from  Cora;  a  modern 
miracle  had  happened :  there  was  oil  in  the  black 
keeping  of  the  plot  of  ground  that  only  senti 
ment  had  so  long  bade  them  retain  in  the  little 
Ohio  town.  Cartaret  was  rich.  .  .  . 

When  the  first  force  of  the  shock  was  over, 
when  he  could  realize,  in  some  small  measure,  what 
that  message  meant  to  him,  Cartaret's  earliest 
thought  was  of  the  Lady  of  the  Rose.  Holding 
the  bit  of  paper  as  tightly  as  if  it  were  itself  his 
riches  and  wanted  to  fly  away  on  the  wings  that 


CARTARET'S  FORTUNE  TURNED  197 

had  brought  it,  he  staggered,  like  a  drunken  man, 
to  the  door  of  the  Room  Opposite. 

He  knocked,  but  received  no  answer.  A  clock 
struck  mid-day.  Vitoria  had  probably  gone  to 
her  class,  and  Chitta  to  her  marketing. 

A  mad  impulse  to  spread  the  good  news  pos 
sessed  him.  It  was  as  if  telling  the  news  were 
recording  a  deed  that  there  was  only  a  brief  time 
to  record :  he  must  do  it  at  once  in  order  to  secure 
title.  He  knew  that  his  friends,  if  they  were  in 
funds,  would  soon  be  gathered  at  the  Cafe  Des 
Deux  Colombes. 

When  he  passed  the  rue  St.  Andre  Des  Arts,  he 
remembered  Fourget.  Cartaret  was  ashamed  that 
his  memory  had  been  so  tardy.  Fourget  had 
helped  him  in  his  heavy  need;  Fourget  should  be 
the  first  to  know  of  his  affluence.  .  .  . 

The  old  dealer,  his  bushy  brows  drawn  tight  to 
gether,  his  spectacles  gleaming,  was  trying  to  say 
"No"  to  a  lad  with  a  picture  under  his  arm — a 
crestfallen  lad  that  was  a  stranger  to  Cataret. 

"Let  me  see  the  picture,"  said  Cartaret,  with- 


198  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

out  further  preface.     He  put  out  a  ready  hand. 

The  boy  blushed.  Cartaret  had  been  abrupt  and 
did  not  present  the  appearance  of  a  possible  pur 
chaser. 

"If  you  please,"  urged  Cartaret.  "I  may  care 
to  buy." 

Fourget  gaped.  The  boy  turned  up  his  can 
vas — an  execrable  daub. 

"I'll  buy  that,"  said  Cartaret. 

"Are  you  mad1?"  asked  Fourget. 

"Bring  back  that  picture  to  M.  Fourget  in  half 
an  hour,"  pursued  the  heedless  American,  "and  he 
will  give  you  for  it  two  hundred  francs  that  he 
will  have  lent  me  and  that  I  shall  have  left  with 
him." 

He  pushed  the  stammering  lad  out  of  the  shop 
and  turned  to  Fourget. 

"Are  you  drunk*?"  asked  the  dealer,  changing 
the  form  of  his  suspicions. 

"Fourget,"  cried  Cartaret,  clapping  his  friend 
on  the  back,  "I  shall  never  be  hungry  again — never 
— never — never!  Look  at  that."  He  produced 
the  precious  cable-message.  "That  piece  of  pa- 


CARTARET'S  FORTUNE  TURNED  199 

per  will  feed  me  all  my  life  long.  It  will  buy  me 
houses,  horses,  motors,  steamship-tickets.  It  looks 
like  paper,  Fourget."  He  spread  it  under  Four- 
get's  nose.  "But  it  isn't;  it's  a  dozen  suits  of 
clothes  a  year;  it's  a  watch-and-chain,  a  diamond 
scarf-pin  (if  I'd  wear  one!);  it's  a  yacht.  It's 
an  oil-well,  Fourget — and  a  godsend !" 

Fourget  took  it  in  his  blue-veined  hands.  His 
hands  trembled. 

"Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  Cartaret.  "It  is  in  English. 
Let  me  translate."  He  translated. 

When  Charlie  looked  up  from  his  reading,  he 
found  Fourget  busily  engaged  in  polishing  his 
spectacles.  Perhaps  the  old  man's  eyes  were  weak 
and  could  not  bear  to  be  without  their  glasses: 
they  certainly  were  moist. 

"I  do  not  see  so  well  as  I  once  saw,"  the  dealer 
was  explaining:  his  voice  was  very  gruff  indeed. 
"You  are  wholly  certain  that  this  is  no  trick  which 
one  plays  upon  you*?" 

Cartaret  was  wholly  certain. 

Fourget  made  a  valiant  attempt  at  expressing 
his  congratulations  in  a  mere  Anglo-Saxon  hand- 


200  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

shake.  He  found  it  quite  inadequate,  and  this 
annoyed  him. 

"The  world,"  he  growled,  "loses  a  possibly  fair 
artist  and  gets  an  idle  millionaire." 

"You  get  a  new  shop,"  vowed  Cartaret.  "Don't 
shake  your  head !  I'll  make  it  a  business  proposi 
tion:  I've  had  enough  trouble  by  being  suspected 
of  chanty.  I'm  going  to  buy  an  interest,  and  I 
shan't  want  my  money  sunk  in  anything  dark 
and  unsanitary." 

Fourget  shook  his  gray  head  again. 

"Thank  you  with  all  my  heart,  my  friend,"  he 
said;  "but  no.  This  little  shop  meets  my  little 
needs  and  will  last  out  my  little  remaining  days. 
I  would  not  leave  it  for  the  largest  establishment 
on  the  boulevards." 

They  talked  until  Cartaret  again  bethought  him 
of  the  cafe  in  the  rue  Jacob. 

"But  you  will  lend  me  the  two  hundred  francs," 
he  asked,  "and  give  it  to  that  boy  for  his  picture*?" 
How  much  a  boy  that  boy  seemed  now:  he  was 
just  the  boy  that  Cartaret  had  been  in  the  long 
ago  time  that  was  yesterday! 


CARTARET'S  FORTUNE  TURNED  201 

"Since  you  insist;  but  truly,  my  dear  monsieur, 
myself  I  was  about  to  weaken  and  purchase  the 
terrible  thing  when  you  interrupted  and  saved 
me."  .  .  . 

The  money  from  Seraphin's  latest  magnum  opus 
not  being  yet  exhausted,  Seraphin's  friends  were 
lunching  at  the  Cafe  Des  Deux  Colombes,  with 
little  Pasbeaucoup  fluttering  between  them  and 
the  kitchen,  and  Madame,  expressionless  under 
her  mountain  of  hair,  stuffed  into  the  wire  cage 
and  bulging  out  of  it.  The  company  rose  when 
they  espied  Cartaret,  the  cadaverous  poet  Gamier 
picking  up  his  plate  of  roast  chicken  so  as  not  to 
lose,  in  his  welcoming,  time  that  might  be  given 
to  eating. 

Cartaret  felt  at  first  somewhat  ashamed  before 
them.  He  felt  the  contrast  between  his  changed 
fortunes  and  their  fortunes  unchanged.  At  last, 
however,  the  truth  escaped  him,  and  then  he  felt 
more  ashamed  than  ever,  so  unenvious  were  the 
congratulations  that  they  poured  upon  him. 

Devigne's  round  belly  shook  with  delight. 
Gamier  even  stopped  eating. 


202  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"Now  you  may  have  the  leisure  for  serious 
work,  which,"  squeaked  Varachon  through  his 
broken  nose,  "your  art  has  so  badly  needed." 

Seraphin  said  nothing,  but  put  his  hand  on 
Cartaret's  shoulder  and  gripped  it  hard. 

Houdon  embraced  the  fortunate  one. 

"Did  I  not  always  tell  you*?"  he  demanded  of 
Seraphin.  "Did  I  not  say  he  was  a  disguised 
millionaire*?" 

"But  he  has  but  now  got  his  money,"  Seraphin 
protested. 

"Poof!"  said  Houdon,  dismissing  the  argument 
with  a  trill  upon  his  invisible  piano.  "La-la-la !" 

"Without  doubt  to  mark  the  event  you  will 
give  a  dinner?"  suggested  Gamier. 

"Without  doubt,"  said  Houdon. 

Cartaret  said  that  he  would  give  a  dinner  that 
very  evening  if  Pasbeaucoup  would  strain  the 
Median  laws  of  the  establishment  so  far  as  to 
trust  him  for  a  few  days,  and  Pasbeaucoup,  re 
ceiving  the  necessary  nod  from  Madame,  said  that 
they  would  be  but  too  happy  to  trust  M.  Car- 


CARTARET'S  FORTUNE  TURNED  203 

tarette  for  any  sum  and  for  any  length  of  time 
that  he  might  choose  to  name. 

So  Cartaret  left  them  for  a  few  hours  and  went 
back  to  his  room  at  the  earliest  possible  moment 
for  finding  Vitoria  returned  from  her  class.  This 
time  he  not  only  knocked:  he  tried,  in  his  haste, 
the  knob  of  the  door,  and  the  door,  swinging  open, 
revealed  an  empty  room,  stripped  of  even  its 
furniture. 

He  nearly  fell  downstairs  to  the  cave  of 
Refrogne. 

"Where  are  they*?"  he  demanded. 

Had  monsieur  again  been  missing  strawberries? 
Where  were  what? 

"Where  is  Mile.  Urola — where  are  the  occu 
pants  of  the  room  across  from  mine?"  Cartaret's 
frenzied  tones  implied  that  he  would  hold  the 
concierge  personally  responsible  for  whatever 
might  have  happened  to  his  neighbors. 

"Likely  they  are  occupying  some  other  room  by 
this  time,"  growled  Refrogne.  "I  was  unaware 
that  they  were  such  great  friends  of  monsieur." 

'They  are.     Where  are  they?" 


204  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"In  that  case,  they  must  have  told  monsieur  of 
their  contemplated  departure." 

"Do  you  mean  they've  moved  to  another  room 
in  this  house?" 

"But  no." 

"Then  where. have  they  gone*?" 

They  had  gone  away.  They  had  paid  their 
bill  honestly,  even  the  rent  for  the  unconsumed 
portion  of  the  month,  and  gone  away.  That  was 
all  it  was  an  honest  concierge's  business  to  know. 

"When  did  they  go1?" 

"Early  this  morning." 

"Didn't  they  leave  any  address*?" 

"None.  Why  should  they?  Mademoiselle 
never  received  letters." 

Cartaret  could  bear  no  more.  Even  the  man 
that  hauled  away  the  furniture  had  only  taken  it 
to  the  shop  from  which  it  had  been  leased. 
Refrogne  had  seen  the  two  women  get  into  a  cab 
with  their  scanty  luggage  and  had  heard  them  or 
der  themselves  driven  to  the  Gare  d'Orsay.  That 
was  the  end  of  the  trail.  .  .  . 


CARTARET'S  FORTUNE  TURNED  205 

Cartaret  climbed  to  his  own  room.  Thrust 
under  the  door,  where  he  had  missed  it  in  the  rush 
of  his  hopeful  exit  that  morning,  was  an  envelope. 
It  did  not  hold  the  expected  note  of  explanation. 
It  held  only  a  pressed  rose,  yellow  now,  and  dry 
and  odorless. 


CHAPTER  XII 

•NARRATING  HOW  CARTARET  BEGAN  HIS  QUEST  OF 
THE  ROSE 

The  power  of  herbs  can  other  harms  remove, 
And  find  a  cure  for  every  ill,  but  love. 

— Gray:  Elegy.  I. 

FOR  a  great  while  Cartaret  remained  as  a  man 
stunned.  It  was  only  very  slowly  that  there 
came  to  him  the  full  realization  of  his  loss,  and 
then  it  came  with  all  the  agony  with  which  a  re 
turn  to  life  is  said  to  come  to  one  narrowly  saved 
from  death  by  drowning. 

Blindly  his  brain  bashed  itself  against  the 
mysterious  wall  of  Vitoria's  flight.  Why  had  she 
gone?  Where  had  she  gone?  Why  had  she  left 
no  word?  A  thousand  times  that  day  these  un 
answerable  questions  whirled  through  his  dizzy 
consciousness.  Had  he  offended  her?  He  had 

explained  his  one  offense,  and  she  had  given  no 

206 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE      207 

sign  of  having  taken  any  other  hurt.  Was  she  in 
deed  a  revolutionist  from  some  strange  country, 
summoned  away,  without  a  moment's  warning, 
by  the  inner  council  of  her  party"?  Revolutionist 
conspirators  did  not  go  to  art-classes  and  do  not 
walk  only  under  the  chaperonage  of  an  ancient 
duenna.  Was  she,  then,  that  claimant  to  power 
that  he  had  once  imagined  her,  now  gone  to  seize 
her  rights'?  Things  of  that  sort  did  not,  Cartaret 
knew,  occur  in  these  prosy  days.  Then  why  had 
she  gone,  and  where,  and  why  had  she  left  no 
word  for  him*?  Again  these  dreary  questions 
began  their  circle. 

Less  than  twenty-four  hours  ago,  he  had 
thought  that  money  would  resolve  all  his  troubles. 
Money !  Fervently  he  wished  himself  poor  again 
— poor  again,  as  yesterday,  with  Her  across  the 
landing  in  the  Room  Opposite. 

Somehow,  he  did  not  forget  his  friends  and  the 
dinner  he  had  promised  them.  He  went  to  the 
Deux  Colombes  and  ordered  the  dinner. 

"Say  to  them,  Pasbeaucoup,"  he  gave  instruc 
tions,  "that  I  am  indisposed  and  shall  not  be  able 


208  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

to  dine  with  them.  Say  that  we  shall  all  dine  to 
gether  some  other  night — very  soon  I  hope.  Say 
that  I  am  sorry." 

He  was  bitter  now  against  all  the  world. 
"What  will  they  care,  as  long  as  they  have  the 
dinner*?"  he  reflected. 

Pasbeaucoup  cared.  He  expressed  great  con 
cern  for  monsieur's  health. 

"That,"  thought  Cartaret,  "is  because  I'm  rich. 
A  month  or  two  ago  and  they  wouldn't  trust  me: 
they'd  have  let  me  starve." 

He  went  back  to  his  desolate  room  and  to  his 
dreary  questioning.  He  was  there,  with  his  head 
in  his  hands,  when  Seraphin  found  him. 

Seraphin's  suit  was  still  new,  and  it  was  evident 
that  he  had  dressed  carefully  his  twin  wisps  of 
whisker  in  honor  of  Cartaret's  celebration.  The 
Frenchman's  face  was  grave. 

"Why  aren't  you  dining?"  sneered  Cartaret. 

Seraphin  passed  by  the  sneer. 

"They  told  me  that  you  were  ill,"  he  said, 
simply. 

"And  you  came  to  see  if  it  was  true?" 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE       209 

"I  came  to  see  if  I  could  be  of  any  assistance." 

("Ah,"  ran  Cartaret's  unjust  thoughts,  "it's  very 
evident  you're  rich  now,  Charlie!") 

"Nobody  else  came  with  you,"  he  said. 

Seraphin  hesitated.  He  twirled  his  soft  hat  in 
his  hands. 

"They  thought — all  but  Houdon,  who  still  per 
sists  that  you  have  been  rich  always — they  thought 
that,  now  that  you  were  rich,  you  might  prefer 
other  society." 

"You  didn't  think  it?" 

"I  did  not." 

It  was  said  so  frankly  that  even  Cartaret's  pres 
ent  mood  could  not  resist  its  sincerity.  Charlie 
frowned  and  put  both  his  hands  on  Seraphin's 
shoulders. 

"Dieudonne,"  he  said,  "I'm  in  trouble." 

"I  feared  it." 

"Not  money-trouble." 

"I  feared  that  it  was  not  money-trouble." 

"You  understood?' 

"I  guessed.  You  have  been  so  happy  of  late, 
while  you  were  so  poor,  that  to  absent  yourself 


210  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

from  this  gayety  when  you  were  rich -"  An  ex 
pressive  gesture  finished  the  sentence.  "Besides," 
added  Seraphin,  "one  cannot  be  happy  long,  and 
when  you  told  me  that  you  had  money,  I  feared 
that  you  would  lose  something  else." 

Cartaret  wrung  the  hand  of  his  friend. 

"Go  back,"  he  said.  "Go  back  and  tell  them 
that  it's  not  pride.  Tell  them  it's  illness.  I  am 
ill.  It  was  good  of  you  to  come  here,  but  there's 
nothing  you  can  do  just  now.  To-morrow,  or 
next  day,  perhaps  I  can  talk  to  you  about  it. 
Perhaps.  But  not  now.  I  couldn't  talk  to  any 
one  now.  Good-night." 

He  sat  down  again — sat  silent  for  many  hours 
after  he  had  heard  Seraphin's  footsteps  die  away 
down  the  stairs.  He  heard  the  hurdy-gurdy  and 
thought  that  he  could  not  bear  it.  He  heard  the 
other  lodgers  return.  He  heard  the  strange  sounds 
— the  creaking  boards,  the  complaining  stairway, 
the  whispering  of  curtains — which  are  the  night- 
sounds  of  every  house.  In  the  ear  of  his  mind, 
he  heard  the  voices  of  his  distant  guests: 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE       211 

"What  woman's  lips  compare  to  this: 
This  sturdy  seidel's  frothy  kiss? " 

Because  he  grew  afraid  of  the  ghosts  of  doubt 
that  haunt  the  darkness,  he  lighted  his  lamp; 
but  for  a  long  time  the  ghosts  remained. 

This  was  the  very  room  in  which  he  had  told 
her  that  he  loved  her;  this  desert  place  was  once 
the  garden  in  which  he  had  said  that  little  of 
what  was  so  much.  She  had  stood  by  that  table 
(so  shabby  now !)  and  made  it  a  wonderful  thing. 
She  had  touched  that  curtain ;  her  fingers,  at  part 
ing,  had  held  that  rattling  handle  of  the  shattered 
door.  He  half  thought  that  the  door  might  open 
and  reveal  her,  even  now.  Memory  joined  hands 
with  love  to  make  her  poignantly  present.  Her 
lightest  word,  her  least  action:  his  mind  retained 
them  and  rehearsed  them  every  one.  The  music 
of  her  laughtej,  the  melody  of  her  grace,  wove 
spells  in  the  lamplit  room;  but  they  ceased  as 
she  had  ceased ;  they  left  the  song  unfinished,  they 
Stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  bar. 

He  wondered  whether  it  must  always  remain 
unfinished,  this  allegro  of  love  in  what,  without  it, 


212  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

would  be  the  dull  biographic  symphony  of  his 
life;  whether  he  would  grow  to  be  an  old  man 
with  no  memories  but  broken  memories  to  warm 
his  heart;  and  whether  even  this  memory  would 
become  as  the  mere  memory  of  a  beautiful  por 
trait  seen  in  youth,  a  Ghirlandaio's  or  a  Guido 
Reni's  work,  some  other  man's  vision,  a  part  of 
the  whole  world's  rich  heritage,  a  portion  of  the 
eternal  riddle  of  existence. 

"So  short  a  time  ago,"  crooned  the  ghosts — 
"and  doubtless  she  has  already  forgotten  you. 
You  have  but  touched  her  hands :  how  could  you 
hope  that  you  had  touched  her  heart4?  She  will 
be  happy,  though  she  knows  that  you  are  un 
happy;  glad,  though  you  are  desolate.  You  gave 
her  your  dreams  to  keep,  your  hopes,  your  faith 
in  love  and  womankind :  and  this  is  what  she  did 
with  them!  They  are  withered  like  that  rose." 

He  had  put  the  yellow  thing  against  his  heart, 
where  once  he  had  put  it  when  it  was  fresh  and 
pure.  He  drew  it  out  now  and  looked  at  it.  What 
did  it  mean — that  message  of  the  rose4?  That, 
as  she  had  once  treasured  the  flower,  so  now  she 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE       213 

would  treasure  in  its  place  her  memory  of  kirn? 

"It  means,"  chanted  the  ghosts,  "that  her 
friendship  is  as  dead  as  this  dry  flower!" 

Did  it?     He  would  make  one  trial  more. 

Vivid  as  was  her  face  in  his  mind,  he  brought 
to  the  lamp  his  pictures  of  her.  She  had  liked 
those  pictures;  in  spite  of  herself,  she  had  shown 
him  that  she  liked  them 

(The  ghosts  were  crooning: 

"Though  you  had  the  brush  of  Diego  Velasquez, 
she  would  not  heed  you  now!") 

Had  he  painted  her — he  had  tried  to— as  she 
should  have  been?  Or  had  he  painted  her  as  she 
really  was? 

He  searched  the  pictures.  Her  eyes  seemed  to 
look  at  him  with  a  long  farewell  in  their  blue- 
black  depths,  the  parted  lips  to  tremble  on  a  sob. 
A  light  was  born  in  the  canvas — the  reflected  light 
of  his  own  high  faith  revived.  Whatever  separated 
them,  it  was  by  no  will  of  hers.  No,  there  was 
no  ghost  in  all  the  fields  of  night  that  he  would 
listen  to  again" :  in  that  pictured  face  there  was  as 
much  of  pride  as  there  was  of  beauty,  but  there 


214  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

was  nothing  of  either  cruelty  or  deceit.  Yes,  he 
had  only  touched  her  hand,  but  certainly  hand  had 
never  yet  touched  hand  as  his  touched  hers.  He 
was  sure  of  it  and  sure  of  her.  A  short  acquaintance 
— it  had  been  long  enough  to  prove  her.  A  few 
broken  words  in  the  twilight — they  were  volumes. 
The  merest  breath  of  feeling — it  would  last  them 
to  their  graves. 

He  would  move  earth  and  Heaven  to  find 
Vitoria:  the  wine  of  that  resolution  rang  in  his 
ears  and  fired  his  heart.  The  sun,  coming  up 
over  the  Pantheon  in  a  glory  of  red  and  gold,  sent 
into  Cartaret's  room  a  shining  messenger  of  royal 
encouragement  before  whose  sword  the  ghosts 
forever  fled.  The  lover  was  almost  gay  again: 
here  was  new  service  for  her;  here,  for  him,  was 
work,  the  best  surcease  of  sorrow.  He  felt  like 
an  athlete  trained  to  the  minute  and  crouching 
for  the  starter's  pistol-shot.  He  believed  in 
Vitoria !  He  believed  in  her,  and  so  he  could  not 
doubt  his  own  ability  to  discover  her  in  the  face 
of  all  hardships  and  to  win  her  against  all  odds; 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE       215 

he  believed  in  her  and  in  himself,  and  so  he  could 
not  doubt  God. 

He  understood  something  of  the  difficulties  that 
presented  themselves.  He  knew  scarcely  anything 
of  the  woman  whom  he  sought;  his  only  clews 
were  her  name  and  the  name  of  the  rose ;  he  must 
first  find  to  what  country  those  names  belonged, 
and  to  find  that  country  he  might  have  to  seek 
through  all  the  world.  He  could  not  ask  help  of 
the  police;  he  would  not  summon  to  his  assistance 
those  vile  rats  who  call  themselves  private-detec 
tives.  It  was  a  task  for  himself  alone;  it  was  a 
task  that  must  occupy  his  every  working-hour ;  but 
it  was  a  task  that  he  would  accomplish. 

A  second  cable-message  interrupted  him  at  his 
ablutions.  It  was  from  his  uncle,  and  it  read : 

"Cora  wires  me  received  no  reply  from  you.  Do  you 
accept  trust's  offer  stated  in  her  cable?  Advise  you  say 
yes.  Better  come  home  and  attend  to  business." 

This  brought  Cartaret  to  the  realization  that 
he  was  in  a  paradoxical  position :  he  was  a  penni 
less  millionaire.  He  went  to  Fourget's  and  bor- 


216  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

rowed  some  money.  Thence  he  went  to  the  cable- 
office  in  the  Avenue  de  1' Opera.  There  had  been, 
he  now  recalled,  an  offer — a  really  dazzling  offer 
— mentioned  in  his  sister's  message;  but  more 
practical  matters  had  driven  it  from  his  mind.  He 
therefore  sent  his  uncle  this: 

"I  accept  trust's  offer.  Advise  Cora  to  agree.  Don't 
worry:  New  York's  not  the  only  place  for  business. 
There's  business  in  Paris — lots  of  it." 

His  uncle  had  been  very  annoying:  Charlie 
should  have  been  at  work  at  the  Bibliotheque  Na- 
tionale  a  full  half-hour  ago.  He  had  resolved 
to  begin  with  the  floral  clew. 

He  went  there  immediately  and  asked  what 
books  they  had  about  flowers;  they  told  him  that 
they  had  many  thousand.  Cartaret  narrowed  his 
field ;  he  said  what  he  wanted  was  a  book  on  roses, 
and  he  was  told  that  he  might  choose  any  of 
hundreds  that  were  at  hand.  In  despair,  he  or 
dered  brought  to  him  any  one  that  began  with  an 
"A" ;  he  would  work  through  the  alphabet. 

By  closing-time  he  had   reached   "Ac."     He 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE       217 

hurried  out  into  the  fresh  breeze  that  blew  down 
through  the  public  square  and  the  narrow  rue 
Colbert,  and  so  cut  across  to  the  cable-office. 

He  wanted  to  send  a  message  mentioning  a  lit 
tle  matter  he  had  forgotten  that  morning.  As  it 
happened,  the  operator  had  just  received  a  mes 
sage  for  Charlie.  It  was  again  from  his  uncle, 
and  said  that  the  sale  would  be  consummated 
early  next  day.  There  was  about  it  a  brevity 
more  severe  than  even  cables  require:  the  elder 
Cartaret  patently  disapproved  of  the  communica 
tion  that  his  nephew  had  sent  him.  Still,  the 
sale  seemed  to  be  assured,  and  that  was  the  main 
thing,  so  Charlie  put  the  word  "Five"  in  place 
of  the  word  "One"  in  the  message  he  was  draft 
ing,  and  sent  it  off: 

**Cable  me  five  thousand." 

He  interrupted  his  library-researches  the  next 
day  to  make  a  sporadic  raid  upon  florist-shops 
along  the  boulevards,  but  found  no  florist  that 
had  ever  heard  of  the  Azure  Rose. 


218  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

The  answer  to  his  latest  cable-message  came 
the  next  day  at  noon.  He  had  resumed  his  search 
at  the  Bibliotheque  and  instructed  the  cable-clerk 
to  hold  all  messages  until  he  should  call  for  them. 
He  called  for  this  at  lunch-time : 

"Sale  completed,  thanks  to  power-of -attorney  you  left 
me  when  sailing.  Do  you  mean  dollars?" 

Cartaret  groaned  at  this  procrastination. 
"And  my  uncle  brags  of  his  American  hustle !" 
he  cried. 

He  filed  his  reply: 

"Of  course  I  meant  dollars.  What  did  you  suppose 
I  meant?  Francs?  Pounds  sterling?  I  mean  dollars. 
Hurry !" 

"Be  sure  to  put  in  the  punctuation  marks,"  he 
admonished  the  pretty  clerk. 

He  dashed  back  to  the  library.  During  the 
next  hundred  and  twenty  hours,  he  divided  his 
time  between  botanical  researches  and  one  side 
of  the  following  cable-conversation: 

"Come  home." 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE       219 

"Can't." 

"Why?' 

"Busy." 

"How?' 

"Botanizing.  But  if  you  don't  send  me  im 
mediately  that  little  bit  of  all  that  belongs  to  me, 
I'll  knock  off  work  to  find  out  the  reason  why." 

The  money  arrived  just  as  his  credit  in  short- 
credit  Paris  was  everywhere  close  to  the  breaking- 
point,  and  just  as  he  gave  up  hope  of  ever  finding 
what  he  wanted  at  the  great  library,  where  he  had 
driven  every  sub  and  deputy  librarian  to  the  brink 
of  insanity.  Money,  however,  brings  resourceful 
ness:  Cartaret  then  remembered  the  Jardin  des 
Plantes,  where  he  had  once  been  with  Vitoria. 

No  official  knew  anything  about  the  Azure 
Rose,  but  an  old  gardener  (Cartaret  was  trying 
them  all)  gave  him  hope.  He  was  a  little  Gascon, 
that  gardener,  with  white  hair  and  blue  eyes,  and 
his  long  labor  had  bent  him  forward,  as  if  the 
earth  in  which  he  worked  had  one  day  laid  hold  of 
his  shoulders  and  never  since  let  go. 

"I  had  a  brother  once  who  was  a  faineant  and 


220  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

so  a  great  traveler.  He  spoke  of  such  a  rose,"  the 
Gascon  nodded;  "but  I  cannot  remember  what 
it  was  that  he  told  me." 

"Here  are  five  francs  to  help  you  remember," 
said  Cartaret. 

The  old  man  took  the  money  and  thanked  him. 

"But  I  cannot  remember  what  my  brother  told 
me,"  he  said,  "except  that  the  rose  was  found 
nowhere  but  in  the  Basque  provinces  of  Spain.". . . 

A  half-hour  later  Cartaret  had  bought  his  travel 
ing-kit,  which  included  a  forty-five  caliber  auto 
matic  revolver.  Forty  minutes  later  he  had  paid 
Refrogne  ten  months'  rent  in  advance,  together 
with  a  twenty-five  franc  tip,  and  directed  that  his 
room  be  held  against  his  return.  An  hour  later  he 
was  sheepishly  handing  Seraphin  a  bulky  package, 
evidently  containing  certain  canvases,  and  saying 
to  him : 

"These  are  something  I  wouldn't  leave  about 
and  couldn't  bring  myself  to  store,  and  you're — 
well,  I  think  you'll  understand." 

At  twelve  o'clock  that  night,  from  an  opened 
window  in  his  compartment  of  a  sleeping-car  on 


THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROSE       221 

a  southward-speeding  train  de  luxe,  Cartaret  was 
looking  up  at  the  yellow  stars  somewhere  about 
Tours. 

"Good-night,  Vitoria!"  he  was  whispering. 
' 'Good-night,  and — God  keep  you!" 

He  was  a  very  practical  man. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FURTHER  ADVENTURES  OF  AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST 

The  happiness  of  the  good  old  times  is  a  mere  dream 
in  every  age;  but  to  keep  on  the  laws  of  the  old  times, 
in  preserving  to  reform,  in  reforming  to  preserve,  is 
the  true  life  of  a  free  people. 

— Freeman :  The  Norman  Conquest. 

"VITORIA,"  explained  the  guard,  whom  Car- 
taret  inveigled  into  conversation  next  morning, 
"is  the  capital  of  the  province  of  Alava." 

"Eh"?"  said  Cartaret.  "Then  there's  more  than 
one  Vitoria,  my  friend.  If  I'd  only  studied  geog 
raphy  when  I  was  at  school,  it  might  have  saved 
me  a  week  now." 

He  tried  to  make  talk  with  a  hatless  English 
man  in  tweeds,  who  was  smoking  a  briar-pipe  in 
the  corridor. 

"Vitoria,"  said  the  Englishman,  "is  one  of  the 
places  where  Wellington  beat  the  French  under 


222 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         223 

Joseph  Buonaparte  and  Jourdan,  in  the  Penin 
sular  War." 

"Didn't  the  Spanish  help?"  asked  Cartaret. 

"They  thought  they  did,"  said  the  English 
man. 

Cartaret  had  had  small  time  in  Paris  to  learn 
anything  about  the  strange  people  and  the  strange 
country  for  which  he  was  bound;  but,  had  he 
had  weeks  for  study,  he  would  have  learned  lit 
tle  more.  Centuries  had  availed  almost  nothing 
to  the  scholars  that  sought  to  explain  them.  The 
origin  of  their  race  and  language  still  unknown, 
the  Basques,  proud  and  wild,  free  and  self-suf 
ficient,  have  held  to  themselves  their  sea  and  moun 
tain-fortresses  from  the  dawn  of  recorded  history. 
The  successive  tides  of  the  Suavi,  the  Franks  and 
the  Goths  have  swept  through  those  rugged  val 
leys,  and  left  the  Basque  unmixed  and  untainted. 
From  the  days  of  the  Roman  legions  to  those 
of  the  Napoleonic  armies,  he  has  withstood  the 
onslaughts  of  every  conqueror  of  Western  Europe, 
unconquered  and  unchanged.  The  rivers  of  his 


224  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

legends  draw  direct  from  the  source  of  all 
legends;  the  boundary  of  his  customs  is  as  un 
alterable  as  the  foundation  of  his  Pyrenees.  The 
engines  of  imperial  slaughter,  the  steady  blows 
of  progress,  the  erosion  of  time  itself,  have  left 
him  as  they  found  him:  the  serene  despair  of  the 
philologist,  the  Sphynx  of  ethnology,  the  riddle 
of  the  races  of  mankind. 

Cartaret  picked  up  the  scanty  threads  of  the 
Basques'  known  chronicle.  He  learned  that  these 
Celtiberi  had  preserved  an  independence  which 
outlasted  the  Western  Empire,  gave  no  more  than 
a  nominal  allegiance  to  Leovigild,  to  Wamba 
and  to  Charlemagne,  cast  their  fortunes  with  the 
Moors  at  Roncesvalles  and,  in  the  eleventh  cen 
tury,  formed  a  free  confederation  of  three  separate 
republics  under  a  ruler  of  their  own  blood  and 
choice,  whose  tenure  was  dependent  upon  con 
stitutional  guarantees  and  whose  power  was  wholly 
executive.  Even  the  yoke  of  Spain,  hated  as  it 
was,  had  failed  materially  to  affect  this  form  of 
government  and  could  be  justly  regarded  as  lit 
tle  save  a  name.  The  three  provinces — the  Vas- 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         225 

congadas  as  they  were  called :  the  sea-coast  Viscaza 
and  Guipuzcoa  and  the  inland  Alava — retained 
their  ancient  identity.  Somewhere  among  their 
swift  rivers  and  well-nigh  inaccessible  mountains 
must  be  the  house  of  her  whom  he  sought.  Be 
cause  of  the  name  that  she  had  given  him,  Cartaret 
headed  now  for  Vitoria. 

Twice  he  had  to  change  his  train,  each  time  for 
a  worse.  From  Bayonne  he  crossed  the  Spanish 
border  at  Hendaya,  whence  the  railway,  after  run 
ning  west  along  the  rocky  coast  of  the  Bay  of  Bis 
cay,  turned  southward  toward  the  heights  about 
Tolosa.  All  afternoon  the  scenery  was  varied  and 
romantic.  The  hard-clay  soil,  cultivated  with 
painful  care  by  young  giants  and  graceful 
amazons,  gave  place  to  pine-forests,  to  tree-cloaked 
hills,  to  mountains  dark  with  mystery. 

Twilight  fell,  then  night.    Cartaret  could  now 
see  nothing  of  the  landscape  through  which  he 
was  jolted,  but,  from  the  puffing  of  the  engine, ' 
the  slow  advance,  the  frightful  swinging  about 
curves,  it  was  clear  to  him  that  he  was  being 


226  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

hauled,  in  a  series  of  half-circles,  up  long  and 
steep  ascents. 

"What  station  is  this*?"  he  asked  a  French- 
speaking  guard  that  passed  his  window  at  a  stop 
where  the  air  was  cool  and  sweet  with  the  odor 
of  pine.  The  lantern  showed  only  a  good-natured 
face  in  a  world  of  darkness. 

"Ormaiztegua,  monsieur,"  said  the  guard. 

"What1?"  said  Cartaret.  "Say  it  slow,  please, 
and  say  it  plainly :  I  am  a  stranger  and  of  tender 
years." 

The  guard  repeated  that  outlandish  name. 

"And  now  which  way  do  we  go*?"  Cartaret  in 
quired. 

"North  again  to  Zumarraga." 

"North  again?"  repeated  Cartaret.  "Look 
here :  I'm  in  a  hurry.  Isn't  there  any  more  direct 
route  to  Vitoria?" 

"Evidently  monsieur  does  not  know  the  Pyre 
nees." 

From  Zumarraga,  the  train  bent  yet  again  south 
ward,  out  of  Guipuzcoa  across  the  Navarra  line. 

"Aren't  we  late4?"  asked  Cartaret. 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         227 

"But  a  little,"  the  guard  reassured  Kim: 
"scarcely  two  hours." 

At  last,  when  they  had  climbed  that  precipitous 
spur  of  the  Pyrenees  which  forms  the  northern 
wall  of  Alava;  after  they  had  stopped  once  to 
harness  an  extra  locomotive,  and  stopped  again  to 
unharness  it;  after  they  had  descended  again,  as 
cended  again  and  once  more  descended — this  last 
time  for  what  seemed  but  a  little  way — the  train 
came  to  the  end  of  this  stage  of  Cartaret's  journey. 
He  alighted  on  a  smoky  platform  only  partially 
illuminated  by  more  smoky  lamps  and  had  him 
self  driven  to  the  hotel  that  the  first  accessible 
cabby  recommended. 

Vitoria  is  a  curious  city  of  nearly  150,000  in 
habitants,  situated  on  a  hill  overlooking  the  Plain 
of  Alava.  Cartaret,  waking  with  the  sun,  could 
see  from  his  window  the  Campillo,  the  oldest  por 
tion  of  the  town,  crowning  the  hill-crest,  an  almost 
deserted  jumble  of  ruined  walls  and  ancient 
towers,  surrounded  by  public-gardens  and  topped 
by  the  twelfth-century  Cathedral  of  St.  Mary, 
the  effect  of  its  Gothic  arches  sadly  lessened  by 


228  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

ugly  modern  additions  to  the  pile.  Below,  the 
Vitoria  Antigua  clung  to  the  hillside,  a  maze  of 
narrow,  twisting  streets;  and  still  lower  lay  the 
new  town,  a  place  of  wide  thoroughfares  and 
shady  walks,  among  which  was  Cartaret's  hotel. 

He  breakfasted  early  and,  having  no  leisure  for 
sight-seeing,  asked  his  way  to  the  city's  adminis 
trative-offices.  He  passed  rows  of  hardware- 
factories,  wine  and  wool  warehouses,  paper-mills 
and  tanneries,  wide  yards  in  which  rows  of 
earthenware  lay  drying,  and  plazas  where  the 
horse  and  mule  trade  flourished,  and  so  came  at 
last  to  the  arcaded  market-place  opposite  which 
was  the  building  that  he  was  in  search  of;  the  of 
fices  were  not  yet  open  for  the  day. 

He  sat  down  to  wait  at  a  table  under  an  awning 
and  before  a  cafe  that  faced  the  market.  The 
market  was  full  of  country-folk,  men  and  women, 
all  of  great  height  and  splendid  physique,  and 
Cartaret  saw  at  once  that  the  latter  wore  the  same 
sort  of  peculiar  headdress  that,  in  Paris,  had  dis 
tinguished  Chitta. 

A  loquacious  waiter,  wholly  unintelligible,  was 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         229 

accosting  him.  Cartaret,  guessing  that  he  was 
expected  to  pay  for  his  chair  with  an  order  for 
drink,  made  signs  to  fit  that  conjecture,  and  the 
waiter  brought  him  a  flask  of  the  native  chacoli. 
It  was  a  poor  wine,  and  Cartaret  did  not  care  for 
it,  but  he  sat  on,  pretending  to,  watching  the  white 
municipal  building  and  looking,  from  time  to  time, 
at  the  fanners  from  the  market  who  passed  into 
the  cafe  and  out  of  it. 

He  half  expected  to  see  Chitta  among  their 
womenfolk:  Chitta,  of  whom  he  would  so  lately 
have  said  that  he  never  wanted  to  see  her  again ! 
The  farmers  all  gravely  bowed  to  him,  and  Car 
taret,  of  course,  bowed  in  return.  Finally  it  oc 
curred  to  him  that  he  might  get  news  from  one 
of  them  and  so,  one  by  one,  he  would  stop  them 
with  an  inquiry  as  to  whether  they  spoke  French. 
A  dozen  failures  were  convincing  him  of  his  folly, 
when  their  result  was  ruined  by  the  appearance 
of  a  rosy-cheeked  young  man  in  a  wide  hat  and 
swathed  legs,  who  appeared  to  be  more  prosper 
ous  than  his  neighbors  and  who  replied  to  Car- 


230  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

taret  in  a  French  that  the  American  could  under 
stand. 

"Then  do  sit  down  and  have  a  drink  with  me," 
urged  Cartaret.  "I'm  a  stranger  here  and  I'd  be 
greatly  obliged  to  you  if  you  would." 

The  young  man  agreed.  He  explained  com 
placently  that  the  folk  of  Alava,  though  invari 
ably  hospitable,  generally  distrusted  strangers, 
but  that  he  had  had  advantages,  having  been  sent 
to  the  Jesuit  school  in  St.  Jean  Pied-de-Port.  He 
was  the  one  chance  in  a  thousand :  he  knew  some 
thing  of  what  Cartaret  wanted  to  learn. 

Had  he  ever  heard  of  a  rose,  a  white  rose,  called 
the  Azure  Rose? 

Had  he  not  heard !  It  was  one  of  the  foolish 
superstitions  of  the  folk  of  Northern  Alava,  that 
rose.  His  own  mother,  being  from  the  North — 
God  rest  her  soul — had  not  been  exempt :  when  he 
was  sent  into  France  to  school,  she  had  pinned 
an  Azure  Rose  against  his  heart  in  order  to  insure 
his  return  home. 

"Then  it  grows  in  the  North?" 

"For  the  most  part,  yes,  monsieur,  and  even 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         231 

there  it  is  something  rare:  that,  without  doubt,  is 
why  it  is  esteemed  so  dearly  by  the  common  folk. 
It  grows  only  near  the  snows,  the  high  snows. 
There  are  but  few  white  peaks  there,  and  on  them 
a  few  such  roses.  The  country  beyond  Alegria 
is  the  place  of  all  places  for  them.  If  monsieur 
wants  to  find  the  Azure  Rose,  he  should  go  to  the 
wild  country  beyond  Alegria." 

"Do  you  know  that  country4?"  asked  Cartaret. 

The  young  man  shrugged.  He  ought  to  know 
it:  he  had  been  brought  up  there.  But  it  was  no 
place  for  strangers;  it  was  very  wild. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Cartaret,  hope  shining  in  his 
brown  eyes — "I  wonder  if  you  ever  heard  of  a 
family  there  by  the  name  of  Urola  *?" 

The  farmer  shook  his  head.  Urola  *?  No,  he 
had  never  heard  of  Urola.  But  stay:  there  was 
the  great  family,  the  Ethenard-Eskurola  d' Ale 
gria.  Eskurola  was  somewhat  like  Urola ;  indeed, 
Urola  was  part  of  Eskurola.  Perhaps,  mon 
sieur 

Cartaret  was  leaning  far  over  the  table. 


232  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"Is  there,"  he  asked,  "a  young  lady  in  that 
family  named  Vitoria  *?" 

The  farmer  reflected. 

"There  was  one  daughter,"  he  said;  "a  little 
girl  when  I  was  a  lad.  She  was  the  Lady  Dolorez. 
She  had,  however,  many  names:  people  of  great 
houses  among  us  have  many  names,  monsieur,  and 
Vitoria  is  not  uncommonly  among  them.  Vito 
ria'?  Yes,  I  think  she  was  also  called  Vitoria." 

"Did  she  speak  English?" 

"It  was  likely,  monsieur."  Nearly  all  of  the 
Ethenard-Eskurolas  spoke  English,  because  one 
of  their  so  numerous  ancestors  was  the  great  Don 
Miguel  Ricardo  d'Alava,  general  under  the  Duke 
of  Wellington,  who  valued  him  above  all  his  gen 
erals  in  that  Spanish  campaign.  Since  then  there 
had  always  been  English  teachers  for  the  chil 
dren  of  the  house.  So  much  was  common  knowl 
edge. 

It  was  enough  for  Cartaret.  Within  the  hour 
he  was  summoning  the  proprietor  of  his  hotel  to 
his  assistance  in  arranging  for  an  -expedition  to 
Alegria. 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         233 

The  hotel  proprietor  stroked  a  beard  so  bris 
tling  as  to  threaten  his  caressing  fingers. 

"It  is  a  wild  country,"  he  remarked. 

"That's  what  they  all  say,"  returned  Carta- 
ret.  "When  does  the  next  train  leave  for  it?" 

"There  is  no  train.  Alegria  is  a  little  town 
in  the  high  Cantabrian  Mountains,  far  from  any 
train." 

"Then  come  along  downtown  and  help  me  buy 
a  horse,"  said  Cartaret.  "I  saw  a  lot  of  likely- 
looking  ones  this  morning." 

"But,  monsieur,"  expostulated  the  hotel  pro 
prietor,  "nobody  between  here  and  Alegria  speaks 
French.  Nobody  in  Alegria  speaks  French — and 
you  do  not  speak  Eskura." 

"What's  that?" 

"It  is  how  we  Basques  name  our  own  tongue." 

"Well,  I  don't  care.    Get  me  a  guide." 

"I  fear  I  cannot,  monsieur.  The  country  peo 
ple  do  not  want  Alava  to  become  the  prey  of  tour 
ists,  and  they  will  be  slow  to  allow  a  stranger." 

"Have  you  got  a  road-map*?" 

Yes,  the  proprietor  had  a  road-map — of  sorts. 


234  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

It  looked  faulty,  and  Cartaret  found  later  that 
it  was  more  faulty  than  it  looked;  but  he  re 
solved  to  make  it  do,  and  that  afternoon  found 
him  in  the  saddle  of  a  lean  and  hardy  mare,  ten 
miles  on  his  way.  He  had  brought  with  him  a 
pair  of  English  riding-breeches  and  leggings — 
purchased  in  Paris  for  no  other  reason  than  that 
he  had  the  money  and  used  to  love  to  ride — his 
reduced  equipment  was  in  saddle-bags,  and  the 
road-map  in  his  handiest  pocket. 

He  put  up  at  a  little  inn  that  night  and  rode 
hard,  east  by  south,  all  the  next  day.  He  rode 
through  fertile  valleys  where  the  fields  were  al 
ready  yellow  with  wheat  and  barley.  He  came 
upon  patches  of  Indian  corn  that  made  him  think 
of  the  country  about  his  own  Ohio  home,  and 
upon  flax-fields  and  fields  of  hemp.  His  way  lay 
steadily  upward,  and  in  the  hills  he  met  with 
iron-banks  and  some  lead  and  copper  mines. 
Queerly  costumed  peasants  herded  sheep  and 
goats  along  the  roadside;  but  nobody  that  Car 
taret  addressed  could  understand  a  word  of  his 
speech.  The  road-map  was  bad,  indeed :  twice  he 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         235 

lost  his  way  by  consulting  it  and  once,  he  thought, 
by  failing  to  consult  it.  A  road  that  the  map  in 
formed  him  would  lead  straight  to  Alegria  ended 
in  a  marble-quarry. 

Cartaret  accosted  the  only  workman  in  sight. 

"Alegria?"  he  asked. 

The  man  pointed  back  the  way  that  Cartaret 
had  come. 

He  followed  the  direction  thus  indicated  and 
took  a  turning  that  he  had  missed  before.  He 
passed  through  a  countryside  of  small  plains. 
Then  he  began  to  climb  again  and  left  these  for 
stretches  of  bare  heath  and  hills  covered  with 
furze.  From  one  hilltop  he  looked  ahead  to  a 
vast  pile  of  mountains  crowned  by  two  white 
peaks  that  shone  in  the  sun  like  the  lances  of  a 
celestial  guard.  The  farms  were  less  and  less  in 
size  and  farther  and  farther  apart — tiny  farms 
cultivated  with  antique  implements.  Apple-or 
chards  appeared  and  disappeared,  and  then,  quite 
suddenly,  the  hills  became  mountains,  their  bases 
covered  by  great  forests  of  straight  chestnut-trees, 
gigantic  oaks  and  stately  bushes  whose  limbs  met 


236  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

in  a  dark  canopy  above  the  rider's  head.  At  his 
approach,  rabbits  scurried,  white  tails  erect,  across 
the  road;  from  one  rare  clearing  a  flock  of 
partridges  whirred  skyward,  and  once,  in  the  dis 
tance,  he  saw  a  grazing  herd  of  wild  deer. 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  he  came  to  a  wide  pla 
teau,  surrounded  on  three  sides  with  mountain- 
peaks.  There  was  a  lake  in  the  center,  with  a 
few  cottages  scattered  along  its  shores,  and  at 
one  end  of  the  lake  a  high-gabled,  wide-eaved 
inn,  in  front  of  which  a  short  man,  dark  and 
wiry  and  unlike  the  people  of  that  country, 
lounged  in  the  sun.  He  proved  to  be  the  inn 
keeper,  a  native  of  Navarre,  and,  to  Cartaret's 
delight,  spoke  French. 

"Yes,"  he  nodded,  "I  learned  it  years  ago  from 
a  French  servant  that  they  used  to  have  at  the 
castle  in  the  old  lord's  time." 

"I've  come  frctti  Vitoria,"  Cartaret  explained. 
"Can  you  tell  me  now  far  it  is  to  Alegria*?" 

"If  you  have  come  from  Vitoria,"  was  the  sus 
picious  answer,  "you  must  have  taken  the  wrong 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         237 

road  and  come  around  Alegria.  Alegria  is  a  score 
of  miles  behind  you." 

Cartaret  swore  softly  at  that  road-map.  He 
was  tired  and  stiff,  however,  and  so  he  dismounted 
and  let  the  landlord  attend  to  his  mare  and  bring 
him,  at  the  inn-porch,  some  black  bread  and 
cheese  and  a  small  pitcher  of  zaragua,  the  native 
cider. 

"These  are  a  strange  people  here,"  he  said  as 
the  landlord  took  a  chair  opposite. 

The  landlord  shook  his  swarthy  head. 

"I  do  not  speak  ill  of  them,"  said  he.  His 
tone  implied  that  such  a  course  would  be  un 
wise.  "They  call  themselves,"  he  went  on  after 
a  ruminative  pause,  "the  direct  descendants  of 
those  Celtiberi  whom  the  old  Romans  could  never 
conquer,  and  I  can  well  believe  it  of  them.  How 
ever,  I  know  nothing:  the  lord  at  the  castle 
knows." 

"They  don't  like  the  Spaniards'?"  asked  Car 
taret. 

"They  hate  us,"  said  the  innkeeper. 

"Why?" 


238  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  because  Spain  rules 
them — so  much  as  any  power  could.  But  I  know 
nothing:  the  lord  at  the  castle  knows." 

"What's  his  name?" 

The  question  fell  thoughtlessly  from  the  lips 
of  the  American,  but  he  had  no  sooner  uttered  it 
than  he  surmised  its  answer: 

"The  Don  Ricardo  Ethenard-Eskurola  d'Ale- 
gria." 

Cartaret  produced  a  gold-piece  and  spun  it  on 
the  rude  table  before  him. 

"An  important  man,  isn't  he*?" 

The  innkeeper  was  eyeing  the  money,  but  his 
reply  was  cautious : 

"How— 'important'  ?" 

"Rich?" 

"The  old  lord  lost  much  when  there  was  the 
great  rising  for  Don  Carlos.  But  an  Ethenard- 
Eskurola  does  not  need  riches." 

"Then  he's  lucky.     How  does  that  happen?" 

"Because  his  family  is  the  most  ancient  and 
powerful  in  all  the  Vascongadas.  There  is  no 
family  older  in  Spain,  nor  any  prouder."  It  was 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         239 

plainly  one  subject  of  which  this  alien  was  per 
mitted  to  know  something.  "They  have  been 
lords  of  this  land  since  before  the  time  that  men 
made  chronicles.  The  papers  in  the  castle  go 
back  to  the  Fifteenth  Century — to  the  time  when 
Eskura  was  first  turned  into  an  alphabet.  They 
were  at  Roncesvalles;  they  made  pilgrimages  to 
Jerusalem  and  fought  in  the  crusades.  One  of 
them  was  Lord-Lieutenant  of  Jerusalem  when 
Godfrey  de  Bouillon  was  its  King.  There  was 
an  Ethenard-Eskurola  at  La  Isla  de  los  Faisanes 
when  the  French  Louis  XI  arranged  there  with 
our  Henry  the  marriage  of  the  Due  de  Guienne. 
Always  they  have  been  lords  and  over-lords — 
always." 

"I  see,"  said  Cartaret.  "And  the  present  lord 
lives  near  here  at  the  castle?" 

"As  all  his  fathers  lived  before  him.  At  their 
place  and  in  their  manner.  What  they  did,  he 
does;  what  they  believed,  he  believes.  Monsieur, 
even  the  ancient  Basque  traditions  of  hospital 
ity  are  there  a  law  infringeable.  Were  you  his 
bitterest  blood-enemy  and  knocked  at  the  castle- 


240  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

gate  for  a  night's  shelter,  he  himself,  Ricardo 
d'Alegria,  would  greet  you  and  wait  upon  you, 
and  keep  you  safe  until  morning." 

"And  then  shoot  my  head  off?"  suggested  Car- 
taret. 

The  innkeeper  smiled:  "I  know  nothing;  but 
the  lord  at  the  castle  knows." 

"I  suppose  he  hasn't  a  drop  of  any  blood  but 
Basque  blood  in  him?" 

"Monsieur,  there  is  but  one  way  in  which  a 
foreigner  may  marry  even  the  humblest  Basque, 
and  that  is  by  some  act  that  saves  the  Basque's 
entire  line.  Thus  even  the  humblest.  As  for 
the  grandee  at  the  castle,  if  I  so  much  as  asked 
him  that  question,  so  proud  is  he  of  his  nationality 
and  family  that  likely  he  would  kill  me." 

"He  must  be  a  pleasant  neighbor,"  said  the 
American.  "He  lives  alone*?" 

"With  his  servants.  He  has,  of  course,  many 
servants." 

"He  is  not  married?" 

Still  eyeing  the  gold-piece,  the  landlord  an 
swered  : 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         241 

"No.  There  was  something,  once,  long  ago, 
that  men  say — but  I  know  nothing.  The  Don 
Ricardo  is  the  last  of  his  house.  Unless  he  mar 
ries,  the  Eskurolas  will  cease.  However,  he  will 
marry." 

"You  seem  certain  of  it." 

"Naturally,  monsieur.  He  will  marry  in  or 
der  that  the  Eskurolas  do  not  cease." 

"Yes-s-s."  Cartaret  hesitated  before  his  next 
question.  "So  he's  alone  up  there1?  I  mean — I 
mean  there's  no  other  member  of  his  family  with 
him  now*?" 

Instantly  the  innkeeper's  face  became  blank. 

"I  know  nothing "  he  began. 

"But  the  lord  at  the  castle  knows !"  interrupted 
Cartaret.  "I  said  it  first  that  time.  The  lord  at 
the  castle  must  know  everything." 

"He  does,"  said  the  landlord  simply. 

Cartaret  rose.  He  pushed  the  gold-piece  across 
the  table. 

"That  sentiment  earns  it,"  said  he.  "Bring 
my  mare,  please.  And  you  might  point  out  the 
way  to  this  castle.  I've  a  mind  to  run  up  there."' 


242  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

The  innkeeper  looked  at  him  oddly,  but,  when 
the  mare  had  been  brought  around,  pointed  a 
lean  brown  finger  across  the  lake  toward  the 
mountains  that  ended  in  twin  white  peaks:  the 
peaks  that  Cartaret  had  seen  a  few  hours  since 
and  that  now  seemed  to  him  to  be  the  crests  of 
which  he  had  dreamed  when  first  he  saw  the  Azure 
Rose. 

"The  road  leads  from  the  head  of  the  lake, 
monsieur,"  said  the  innkeeper:  "you  cannot  lose 
your  way." 

Cartaret  followed  the  instructions  thus  con 
veyed.  After  three  miles'  riding,  a  curved  ascent 
had  shut  the  lake  and  the  cottages  from  view,  had 
shut  from  view  every  trace  of  human  habitation. 
He  rode  among  scenery  that,  save  for  the  grassy 
bridle-path,  was  as  wild  as  if  it  had  never  before 
been  known  of  man. 

It  was  a  ravishing  country,  a  fairy-country  of 
blue  skies  and  fleecy  clouds;  of  acicular  summits 
and  sharp-edged  crags ;  of  mist-hung  valleys  shim 
mering  in  the  sun ;  of  black  chasms  dizzily  bridged 
by  scarlet-flowered  vines.  The  road  ran  along 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         243 

the  edges  of  precipices  and  wreathed  the  gray  out 
cropping  rock;  thick  ropes  of  honeysuckle  fes 
tooned  the  limbs  of  ancient  trees  and  perfumed 
all  the  air.  Here  a  blue  cliff  hid  its  distant  face 
behind  a  bridal-veil  of  descending  spray,  broken 
by  a  dozen  rainbows;  there,  down  the  terrifying 
depths  of  a  vertical  wall,  roared  a  white  and 
mighty  cataract.  The  traveler's  ears  began  to 
listen  for  the  song  of  the  hamadryad  from  the 
branches  of  the  oak;  his  eyes  to  seek  the  flashing 
limbs  of  a  frightened  nymph;  here  if  anywhere 
the  gods  of  the  elder-revelation  still  held  sway. 

Evening,  which  comes  so  suddenly  in  the  Can- 
tabrians,  was  falling  before  the  luxuriant  verdure 
lessened  and  he  came  to  a  break  in  the  forest. 
Below  him,  billow  upon  billow,  the  foothills  fell 
away  in  rolling  waves  of  green.  Above,  the 
jagged  circle  of  the  horizon  was  a  line  of  salient 
,  summits  and  tapering  spires  of  every  tint  of  blue 
— turquoise,  indigo,  mauve — mounting  up  and 
up  like  the  seats  in  a  Titanic  amphitheater,  to  the 
royal  purple  of  the  sky. 

Cartaret  had  turned  in  his  saddle  to  look  at  the 


244  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

magnificent  panorama.  Now,  turning  forward, 
he  saw,  rising  ahead  of  him — ten  miles  or  more 
ahead,  but  so  gigantic  as  to  seem  bending  directly 
above  him  and  tottering  to  crush  him  and  the 
world  at  his  feet — one  of  the  peaks  that  the  inn 
keeper  had  indicated.  It  was  a  mountain  piled 
upon  the  mountains,  a  sheer  mountain  of  naked 
chalcedonous  rock,  rising  to  a  snow-topped  pin 
nacle;  and,  at  its  foot,  almost  at  the  extreme  edge 
of  the  timber-line,  a  broad,  muricated  natural  gal 
lery,  stood  a  vast  Gothic  pile,  a  somber,  rambling 
mass  of  wall  and  tower:  the  castle  of  the  Esku- 
rolas. 

Almost  as  Cartaret  looked,  the  sun  went  down 
behind  that  peak  and  wrapped  the  way  in  utter 
darkness.  The  traveler  regarded  with  something 
like  dismay  the  last  faint  glow  that  vanished  from 
the  west. 

"So  sorry  you  had  to  go,"  he  said,  addressing 
the  departed  lord  of  day.  He  tried  to  look  about 
him.  "A  nice  fix  I'm  in,"  he  added. 

He  attempted  to  ride  on  in  the  dark,  but,  re 
membering  the  precipices,  dared  not  touch  rein. 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         245* 

He  thought  of  trusting  to  the  instinct  of  the  mare, 
but  that  soon  failed  him:  the  animal  came  to  a 
full  stop.  The  stillness  grew  profound,  the  night 
impenetrable. 

Then,  suddenly,  there  was  a  wild  cacophony 
from  the  forest  on  his  left.  It  shook  the  air  and 
set  the  echoes  clanging  from  cliff  to  cavern.  The 
mare  reared  and  snorted.  Lights  danced  among 
the  trees;  the  lights  became  leaping  flames;  the 
noise  was  identifiable  as  the  clatter  of  dogs  and 
the  shouts  of  men.  Cartaret  subdued  his  mare 
just  as  a  torch-bearing  party  of  picturesquely- 
garbed  hunters  plunged  into  the  road  directly  in 
front  of  him  and  came,  at  sight  of  him,  to  a  stand. 

In  the  flickering  light  from  a  trio  of  burning 
pine-knots,  the  sight  was  enough  strange.  There 
were  six  men  in  all :  three  of  them,  in  peasant  cos 
tume,  bearing  aloft  the  torches,  and  two  more, 
similarly  dressed,  holding  leashes  at  which  huge 
boar-hounds  tugged.  A  pair  of  torch-bearers  car 
ried  a  large  bough  from  the  shoulder  of  one  to 
the  shoulder  of  the  other,  and  suspended  feet  up 
ward  from  this  bough — bending  with  the  weight 


246  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

— was  a  great,  gray-black  boar,  its  woolly  hair  red 
with  blood,  the  coarse  bristles  standing  erect  like 
a  comb  along  its  spine,  its  two  enormous  tusks 
prism-shaped  and  shining  like  prisms  in  the  light 
from  the  pine-knots. 

A  deep  bass  voice  issued  a  challenge  in  Eskura. 
It  came  from  the  sixth  member  of  the  party,  un 
mistakably  in  command. 

He  was  one  of  the  biggest  men  Cartaret  had 
ever  seen.  He  must  have  stood  six-feet-six  in  his 
boots  and  was  proportionately  broad,  deep-chest 
ed  and  long-armed.  In  one  hand  he  held  an  old- 
fashioned  boar-spear — its  blade  was  red — as  a 
sportsman  that  scorns  the  safety  of  a  boar-hunt 
with  a  modern  rifle.. 

The  torch-light,  flickering  over  his  tanned  and 
bearded  face,  showed  features  handsome  and  aqui 
line,  fashioned  with  a  severe  nobility.  Instead  of 
a  hat,  a  scarf  of  red  silk  was  wrapped  about  his 
black  curls  and  knotted  at  one  side.  His  eyes, 
under  eagle-brows,  were  fierce  and  gray.  Cartaret 
instinctively  recalled  his  early  ideas  of  a  dark 
Wotan  in  the  Nibelung  en-Lied. 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         247 

The  American  dismounted.  He  said,  in  Eng 
lish: 

"You  are  the  Don  Ricardo  Ethenard-Esku- 
rola*?" 

He  had  guessed  rightly:  the  big  man  bowed 
assent. 

"I'm  an  American,"  explained  Cartaret.  "The 
innkeeper  down  in  the  valley  told  me  your  castle 
was  near  here,  so  I  thought  that  this  was  you.  I'm 
rather  caught  here  by  the  darkness.  I  wonder 

if "  He  noted  Eskurola's  eye  and  did  not 

like  it.  "I  wonder  if  there's  another  inn — one 
somewhere  near  here." 

The  Basque  frowned.  For  a  moment  he  said 
nothing.  When  he  did  speak  it  was  in  the  slow, 
but  precise,  English  that  Cartaret  had  first  heard 
from  the  lips  of  the  Lady  of  the  Rose. 

"You,  sir,  are  upon  my  land " 

"I'm  very  sorry,"  said  Cartaret. 

"And,"  continued  Don  Ricardo,  "I  could  not 
permit  to  go  to  a  mere  inn  any  gentleman  whom 
darkness  has  overtaken  upon  the  land  of  the  Es- 
kurolas.  It  is  true:  on  my  land  merely,  you  are 


248  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

not  my  guest ;  according  to  our  customs,  I  am  per 
mitted  to  fight  a  duel,  if  need  arises,  with  a  gentle 
man  that  is  on  my  land."  He  smiled :  he  had,  in 
the  torchlight,  a  fearsome  smile.  "But  on  my 
land,  you  are  in  the  way  of  becoming  my  guest. 
Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  accompany  me  to  my 
poor  house  and  accept  such  entertainment  as  my 
best  can  give  you?" 

Cartaret  accepted,  and,  in  the  act,  thought  the 
acceptance  too  ready. 

"Pray  remount,"  urged  Eskurola. 

But  Cartaret  said  that  he  would  walk  with  his 
host,  and  so  the  still  trembling  mare  was  given  to 
an  unencumbered  torch-bearer  to  lead,  and,  by 
the  light  of  the  pine-knots,  the  party  began  its 
ten-mile  climb. 

The  night  air,  at  that  altitude,  was  keen  even 
in  Summer,  and  the  way  was  dark.  The  Amer 
ican  had  an  uneasy  sense  that  he  was  often  toiling 
along  the  edges  of  invisible  abysses,  and  once  or 
twice,  from  the  forest,  he  heard  the  scurry  of  a 
fox  and  saw  the  green  eyes  of  a  lynx.  He  tried 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST         249 

to  make  conversation  and,  to  his  surprise,  found 
himself  courteously  met  more  than  half  way. 

"I  know  very  little  of  this  part  of  Spain,"  he 
said:  "nothing,  in  fact,  except  what  I've  learned 
in  the  past  few  days  and  what  the  inn-keeper 
down  there  told  me." 

"We  Basques  do  not  call  this  a  part  of  Spain," 
Eskurola  corrected  him  in  a  voice  patently  striv 
ing  to  be  gentle;  "and  the  inn-keeper  knows  little. 
He  is  but  a  poor  thing  from  Navarre." 

"Yes,"  Cartaret  agreed;  "the  staple  of  his  talk 
was  the  statement  that  he  knew  nothing  at  all." 

Eskurola  smiled. 

"That  is  the  truth,"  said  he. 

He  went  on  to  speak  freely  enough  of  his  own 
people.  He  explained  something  of  their  almost 
Mongolian  language:  its  genderless  nouns;  its 
countless  diminutives;  its  endless  compounds 
formed  by  mere  juxtaposition  and  elision;  its 
staggering  array  of  affixes  to  supply  all  ordinary 
grammatical  distinctions,  doing  away  with  our 
need  of  periphrasis  and  making  the  ending  of  a 
word  determine  its  number  and  person  and  mood, 


250  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

the  case  and  number  of  the  object,  and  even  the 
rank,  sex  and  number  of  the  persons  addressed. 

He  talked  with  a  modesty  so  formed  as  really 
to  show  his  high  pride  in  everything  that  was 
Basque.  When  Cartaret  pressed  him,  he  told, 
with  only  a  pretense  of  doubt  in  his  voice,  how 
the  Celtiberi  considered  themselves  descendants 
of  the  ocean-engulfed  Atalantes,  and  former  own 
ers  of  all  the  Spanish  peninsula.  Even  now,  h« 
insisted,  they  were  the  sole  power  over  themselves 
from  the  bold  coast-line  of  Vizcaya  to  the  borders 
of  Navarre  and  had  so  been  long  before  Sancho 
the  Wise  was  forced  to  grant  them  a  fuero.  They 
had  always  named  their  own  governors  and  fixed 
their  own  taxes  by  republican  methods.  The  sign 
of  the  Vascongadas,  the  three  interlaced  hands 
with  the  motto  Iruracacabat,  signified  three-in- 
one,  because  delegates  from  their  three  parlia 
ments  met  each  year  to  care  for  the  common  inter 
ests  of  all ;  but  there  was  no  written  pact  between 
them :  the  Basques  were  people  of  honor. 

Spain?  Don  Ricardo  disliked  its  mention.  St. 
Mary  of  Salvaterra!  The  Basque  parliaments 


AN  AMATEUR  BOTANIST          251 

named  a  deputation  that  negotiated  with  repre 
sentatives  of  the  Escorial  and  preserved  Basque 
liberties  and  law.  If  Madrid  called  that  sover 
eignty,  it  was  welcome  to  the  term. 

"We  remain  untouched  by  Spain,"  he  said, 
"and  untouched  by  the  world.  Our  legends  are 
still  Grecian,  our  customs  are  what  the  English 
call  'iron-clad.'  Basque  blood  is  Basque  and  so 
remains.  It  never  mixes.  It  could  mix  in  only 
one  contingency." 

Cartaret  was  glad  that  the  darkness  hid  his 
flushed  cheek  as  he  answered: 

"I  have  recently  heard  of  that  contingency." 

"It  never  occurs,"  said  Eskurola  quickly,  "be 
cause  the  Basque  always  chooses  not  to  permit 
himself  to  be  saved.  It  is  a  traditional  law  among 
us  as  strong  as  that  against  the  disgrace  of  sui 
cide." 

Their  feet  were  sounding  over  a  bridge:  the 
bridge,  as  Cartaret  reflected,  to  the  castle's  moat. 
Through  the  light  of  the  torches,  the  great  gray 
walls  of  the  pile  climbed  above  him  and  disap 
peared  into  the  night.  A  studded  door,  with 


252  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

mighty  heaving  of  bolts,  swung  open  before  them, 
and  they  passed  through  into  a  vaulted  gateway. 
The  pine-knots  cast  dancing  shadows  on  the 
stones. 

Into  what  medieval  world  was  he  being  ad 
mitted?  Did  Vitoria  indeed  inhabit  it?  And  if 
she  did,  what  difficulties  and  dangers  must  he 
overcome  before  ever  he  could  take  her  thence"? 

Don  Ricardo  was  speaking. 

"I  welcome  you  to  my  poor  home,"  he  said. 

Cartaret's  heart  beat  high.  He  was  ready  for 
any  difficulty,  for  any  danger.  .  .  . 

With  a  solemn  boom  the  great  gate  swung  shut 
behind  him.  He  felt  that  it  had  shut  out  the 
Twentieth  Century. 


CHAPTER  XIV 


....  Since  we  must  part,  down  right 
With  happy  day ;  burdens  well  borne  are  light. 
-  Donne:  Eleg.  XIII. 

CARTARET  was  lighted  by  his  host  himself  to  a 
bedroom  high  up  in  the  castle  and  deep  within  it 
— a  bedroom  big  enough  and  dreary  enough  to 
hold  all  the  ghosts  of  Spain.  An  old  man-servant 
brought  him  a  supper  calculated  to  stay  the  hunger 
of  a  shipwrecked  merchant-crew.  He  lay  down  in 
a  great  four-poster  bed  both  canopied  and  cur 
tained,  and,  in  spite  of  his  weariness,  he  tossed 
for  hours,  wondering  whether  Vitoria  was  also 
somewhere  within  those  grim  walls  and  what 
course  he  was  to  pursue  in  regard  to  her. 

The  same  uncertainty  gripped  him  when  break 
fast  was  brought  to  his  bedside  in  the  early  morn 
ing.  Was  this,  after  all,  Vitoria's  home;  and  if  it 

253. 


254  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

was,  had  she  returned  to  it*?  Supposing  an  af 
firmative  answer  to  these  questions,  what  was  he 
to  say  to  her  brother"?  So  far,  thank  Heaven, 
Don  Ricardo,  though  he  had  once  or  twice  looked 
queerly  at  the  American,  had  been  too  polite  to 
make  awkward  inquiries,  but  such  inquiries  were 
so  natural  that  they  were  bound  soon  to  be  made ; 
and  Cartaret  could  not  remain  forever  an  unex 
plained  and  self-invited  guest  in  the  castle  of  his 
almost  involuntary  host.  The  guest  recalled  all 
that  he  had  heard  of  the  national  and  family  pride 
and  traditions  of  the  Eskurolas,  and  only  his  na 
tive  hopefulness  sustained  him. 

He  found  his  own  way  down  twisting  stairs 
and  into  a  vast  courtyard  across  which  servants 
were  passing.  The  great  gate  was  open,  and  he 
stepped  through  it  toward  the  battlemented  ter 
race  that  he  saw  beyond. 

His  first  shock  was  there.  The  bridge  that  he 
had  crossed  the  night  before  was  indeed  a  draw 
bridge  and  did  indeed  span  the  castle-moat,  but 
the  bridge  was  unrailed  and  that  moat  was  a  ter 
rible  thing.  It  was  no  pit  of  twenty  or  thirty 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  TRADITIONS    255 

feet  dug  by  the  hand  of  man.  The  terrace  to 
which  the  castle  clung  was  separated  from  that 
to  which  climbed  the  steep  approach  by  a  natural 
chasm  of  at  least  twelve  yards  across,  with  sheer 
sides,  like  those  of  a  glacial  crevasse,  shooting 
downwards  into  black  invisibility  and  echoing 
upward  the  thunderous  rush  of  unseen  waters. 

Leaning  on  the  weather-worn  wall  that  climbed 
along  the  edge  of  this  precipice  and  guarded  a 
broad  promenade  between  it  and  the  castle,  Car- 
taret  looked  with  a  new  sensation  at  the  marvel 
ous  scene  about  him.  Behind  rose  the  frowning 
castle,  a  maze  of  parapets  and  towers,  built 
against  that  naked,  snow-capped,  chalcedonous 
peak.  In  front,  falling  away  through  a  hundred 
gradations  of  green,  a  riot  of  luxuriant  vegeta 
tion,  lay  the  now  apparently  uninhabited  country 
through  which  he  had  ridden,  and  beyond  this, 
circling  it  like  the  teeth  of  the  celestial  dragon 
that  the  Chinese  believe  is  to  swallow  the  sun, 
rose  row  on  row  of  bare  mountains,  ridges  and 
pinnacles  blue  and  gray. 

A  hand  fell  on  Cartaret's  shoulder.    He  turned 


256  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

to  find  Don  Ricardo  standing  beside  him.  The 
giant  gave  every  appearance  of  having  been  up 
and  about  for  hours,  and,  despite  his  bulk,  he  had 
approached  his  guest  unheard. 

"I  trust  that  you,  sir,  have  slept  well  in  my 
poor  house." 

Cartaret  replied  that  he  had  slept  like  a  top. 

"And  that  you  could  eat  of  the  little  breakfast 
which  my  servants  provided*?" 

"I  made  a  wonderful  breakfast,"  said  Cartaret. 

"It  is  good,  sir.  If  you  can  bear  with  my  house, 
it  is  yours  for  so  long  as  you  care  to  honor  it  with 
your  presence." 

Cartaret  knew  that  this  must  be  only  an  exag 
gerated  fashion 'of  speech,  but  he  chose  to  take  it 
literally. 

"That's  very  good  of  you,"  he  said.  "I  haven't 
ridden  for  years  and  I'm  rather  done  up.  If  you 
really  don't  mind,  I  think  I  will  rest  here  over 
another  night." 

Don  Ricardo  seemed  unprepared  for  this,  but 
he  checked  a  frown  and  bowed  gravely. 

"A  year  would  be  too  short  for  me,"  he  vowed. 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  TRADITIONS    257 

They  fell  to  talking,  the  host  now  trying  to 
turn  the  conversation  into  the  valley,  the  guest 
holding  it  fast  to  the  castle-heights. 

"It  is  a  beautiful  place,"  said  Cartaret;  "I  don't 
know  when  I've  seen  anything  to  compare  with 
it;  and  yet  I  should  think  you'd  find  it  rather 
lonely." 

"Not  lonely,  sir,"  said  the  Basque.  "The  hunt 
ing  in  the  valley  is  a  compensation.  For  exam 
ple,  where  you  see  those  oaks  about  the  curve  of 
that  river,  I  hunted,  not  ten  days  ago,  a  wolf  as 
large  as  those  for  which  my  ancestors  paid  the 
wolf-money." 

"Still,"  Cartaret  persisted,  "you  do  live  here 
quite  alone,  don't  you*?" 

He  knew  that  he  was  impudent,  and  he  felt 
that  only  his  host's  reverence  for  the  laws  of  hos 
pitality  prevented  an  open  resentment.  Never 
theless,  Cartaret  was  bound  to  find  out  what  he 
could,  and  this  time  he  was  rewarded. 

"There  is  good  enough  to  live  with  me,"  said 
Don  Ricardo  stiffly,  "my  lady  sister,  the  Dona 


258  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

Dolorez  Eulalia  Vitoria."  He  looked  out  across 
the  chasm. 

Cartaret  caught  his  breath.  There  was  an  awk 
ward  pause.  Then,  glancing  up,  he  saw,  coming 
toward  them  along  the  terrace,  the  figure  of  a 
woman-servant  that  seemed  startlingly  familiar. 

It  was  Chitta.  She  was  bent,  no  doubt,  on 
some  household  errand  to  her  master,  whose  face 
was  luckily  turned  away — luckily  because,  when 
she  caught  sight  of  Cartaret,  her  jaw  dropped  and 
her  knees  gave  under  her. 

Cartaret  had  just  time  to  knit  his  brows  with 
the  most  forbidding  scowl  he  could  assume.  The 
old  woman  clasped  her  hands  in  what  was  plainly 
a  prayer  to  him  to  be  silent  concerning  all  knowl 
edge  of  her  and  her  mistress.  A  moment  more, 
and  Don  Ricardo  was  giving  her  orders  in  the 
Basque  tongue. 

"Our  servants,"  he  said  apologetically  when 
she  had  gone,  "are  faithful,  but  stupid."  His  gray 
eyes  peered  at  Cartaret  searchingly.  "Very  stu 
pid,  sir,"  he  added.  "For  instance,  you,  sir,  know 
something  of  our  customs;  you  know  that  cen- 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  TRADITIONS    259 

turies-old  tradition — the  best  of  laws — makes  it 
the  worst  of  social  crimes  for  a  Basque  to  marry 
any  save  a  Basque " 

He  stopped  short,  holding  Cartaret  with  his 
eyes.  Cartaret  nodded. 

"Very  well,  sir,"  Ricardo  continued:  "one 
time  a  lady  of  our  house — it  was  years  upon  years 
ago,  when  Wellington  and  the  English  were  here 
— fell  in  love,  or  thought  that  she  did,  with  a 
British  officer.  For  an  Englishman,  his  degree 
was  high,  but  had  he  been  the  English  King  it 
would  have  served  him  nothing  among  us.  Know 
ing  of  course  that  the  head  of  our  house  would 
never  consent  to  such  a  marriage,  this  lady  com 
manded  her  most  loyal  servant  to  assist  in  an 
elopement.  Now,  the  Basque  servant  must  obey 
her  mistress,  but  also  the  Basque  servant  must 
protect  the  honor  of  the  house  that  she  has  the 
privilege  to  serve.  This  one  sought  to  do  both 
things.  She  assisted  in  the  elopement  and  brought 
the  lady  to  the  English  camp.  Then,  thus  having 
been  faithful  to  one  duty,  she  was  faithful  to  the 
other:  before  the  wedding,  she  killed  both  her 


260  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

mistress  and  herself."  He  turned  quickly.  "Sir, 
I  have  pressing  duties  in  the  valley,  and  you  are 
too  weary  to  ride  with  me:  my  poor  house  is  at 
your  disposal." 

Cartaret  leaned  against  the  parapet  and,  when 
his  host  was  out  of  earshot,  whistled  softly. 

"What  a  delightful  raconteur"  he  mused.  "I 
wonder  if  he  meant  me  to  draw  any  special  moral 
from  that  bit  of  family-history." 

He  waited  until,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  he 
saw  Don  Ricardo  and  two  servants  ride  across  the 
drawbridge  and  wind  their  way  toward  the  val 
ley.  He  waited  until  the  green  forest  engulfed 
them.  What  he  was  going  to  do  might  be  ques 
tionable  conduct  in  a  guest,  but  there  was  no  time 
to  waste  over  nice  points  of  etiquette.  He  was 
going  to  find  Vitoria. 

He  started  for  the  court-yard.  His  plan  was 
to  accost  the  first  servant  that  he  encountered  and 
mention  Chitta's  name,  but  this  trouble  was  saved 
him.  In  the  shadowy  gateway,  he  found  Chitta 
crouching. 

She  glanced  to  right  and  left,  saw  that  they 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  TRADITIONS    261 

were  unobserved,  passed  beyond  a  narrow  door 
that  opened  into  the  gate,  and  led  Cartaret  up  a 
spiral  stone  staircase  to  the  entrance  of  a  circular 
room  in  one  of  the  twin  gate-towers.  There  she 
turned  and  left  him  alone  with  Vitoria. 

In  the  center  of  that  bare  room,  standing  beside 
one  of  the  bowmen's  windows  that  commanded 
the  approach  to  the  castle,  the  Lady  of  the  Rose 
awaited  him.  For  an  instant,  he  scarcely  recog 
nized  her.  She  was  gowned  in  a  single-piece 
Basque  dress  of  embroidered  silk,  closely  fitted 
about  her  full  lithe  figure  to  below  the  hips,  the 
skirt  widening  and  hanging  loosely  about  her  slim 
ankles.  A  black  silk  scarf,  in  sharp  contrast  to 
the  embroidery,  was  sewn  to  the  dress  and  drawn 
tightly  over  the  right  shoulder,  across  the  bust, 
and  then  draped  beneath  the  left  hip.  But  the 
glory  of  her  blue-black  hair  was  as  he  had  first 
seen  it  in  the  twilight  of  his  far-off  studio;  the 
creamy  whiteness  of  her  cheeks  was  just  touched 
with  pink,  and  her  blue  eyes,  under  curling  lashes, 
seemed  at  first  the  frank  eyes  that  he  loved. 

"Vitoria!"  he  cried. 


262  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

She  drew  back.  She  raised  one  hand,  its  pink 
palm  toward  him. 

"You  should  not  have  done  this,"  she  said  in  a 
rapid  whisper.  "How  did  you  find  me*?  How 
did  you  come  here*?"  Her  voice  was  kind,  but 
steady. 

Cartaret  stood  still.  This  he  had  not  looked 
for.  His  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  the  lines  about 
his  mouth  deepened,  as  they  always  did  at  mo 
ments  of  crisis,  and  made  his  face  very  firm. 

"Does  it  matter  how?"  he  asked.  "Not  all 
the  width  of  the  world  could  have  kept  me  away. 
There's  something  I've  got  to  know  and  know  in 
stantly." 

"But  you  should  not  have  come,  and  you  must 
go  immediately !  Listen — no,  listen  to  me  now ! 
I  am  not  Vitoria  Urola  in  these  mountains; 
whether  I  want  it  or  not,  I  have  to  be  the  Dona 
Dolorez  Ethenard-Eskurola.  That  would  per 
haps  sound  amusing  in  the  rue  du  Val  de  Grace; 
here  it  is  a  serious  matter:  the  most  serious  mat 
ter  in  this  little  mountain-world.  You  will  have 
to  listen  to  me." 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  TRADITIONS    263 

Cartaret  folded  his  arms. 

"Go  on,"  he  said. 

"Last  Winter,"  she  continued,  her  face  chal 
lenging  his,  "I  had  a  time  of  rebellion  against  all 
these  things  amongst  which  I  had  been  brought 
up.  I  had  never  been  farther  away  from  this  place 
than  Alegria,  but  I  had  had  French  and  English 
governesses,  and  I  read  books  and  dreamed  dreams. 
I  loved  to  paint;  I  thought  that  I  could  learn 

to  be  a  real  artist,  but  I  knew  that  my  brother 

• 

would  think  that  a  shame  in  an  Eskurola  and 
would  never  permit  his  unmarried  sister  to  go  to 
a  foreign  city  to  study.  Nevertheless,  I  was  hun 
gry  for  the  great  world  outside — for  the  real 
world — and  so  I  took  poor  Chitta,  gathered  what 
jewels  were  my  own  and  not  family-jewels,  and 
ran  away." 

She  looked  from  the  window  to  the  road  that 
led  into  the  valley;  but  the  road  was  still  de 
serted. 

"Chitta  sold  the  jewels,"  she  presently  went  on. 
"They  brought  very  little;  but  to  me,  who  had 
never  used  money,  it  seemed  much.  We  went  to 


264  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

Paris:  I  and  Chitta,  who,  because  she  had  often 
been  so  far  as  Vitoria  before,  became  as  much  my 
guardian  as  she  was  my  servant — and  I  was  long 
afraid  to  go  but  a  little  distance  in  the  streets 
without  her:  the  streets  terrified  me,  and,  after 
one  fright,  she  made  me  promise  to  go  nowhere 
without  her.  So  we  took  the  room  that  you  know 
of.  We  were  used  to  regarding  my  brother  as 
all-powerful;  we  feared  that  he  would  find  us. 
«  Therefore,  we  would  let  no  one  know  who  we  were 
or  whence  we  came.  Now  that  is  over."  Her 
voice  trembled  a  little.  She  made  a  hopeless 
gesture.  "It  is  all  over,  and  we  have  come  back 
to  our  own  people."  She  raised  her  head  proudly ; 
she  had  regained  her  self-control :  to  Cartaret,  she 
seemed  to  have  regained  an  ancient  pride.  "I 
have  learned  that  I  must  be  what  I  was  born  to 
be." 

He  squared  his  jaw. 

"A  slave  to  your  brother's  will,"  he  said. 

"A  creature,"  she  answered  with  steady  gaze — 
"a  creature  of  the  will  of  God." 

"But  this  is  nonsense!"     He  came  forward. 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  TRADITIONS    265 

"This  sort  of  thing  may  have  been  all  very  well 
in  the  Fourteenth  Century;  but  we're  living  in  the 
Twentieth,  and  it  doesn't  go  now.  Oh," — he 
flung  out  a  hand — "I  know  all  about  your  old 
laws  and  traditions !  I  dare  say  they're  extremely 
quaint  and  all  that,  and  I  dare  say  there  was  a 
time  when  they  had  some  reason  in  them ;  but  that 
time  isn't  this  time,  and  I  refuse  to  hear  any  more 
about  them.  I  won't  let  them  interfere  with  me." 

She  flashed  crimson. 

"You  speak  for  yourself,  sir:  permit  me  to 
speak  for  myself." 

His  answer  was  to  seize  her  hands. 

"Let  me  go!"  she  ordered. 

"I'll  never  let  you  go,"  said  he. 

"Let  me  go.  You  are  a  brave  man  to  restrain 
a  woman!  Shall  I  call  a  servant?" 

She  struggled  fiercely,  panting. 

"I've  got  to  make  you  understand  me,"  he  pro 
tested,  holding  fast  her  hands.  "I  didn't  mean 
any  harm  to  your  traditions  or  your  customs. 
Whatever  you  love  I'll  try  to  love  too — just  so 
long  as  it  doesn't  hurt  you.  But  this  does  hurt 


266  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

you.  Tell  me  one  thing:  Why  did  you  leave 
Paris'?  What  was  it  made  you  change  your 
mind*?"  He  saw  in  her  face  the  signs  of  an  ef 
fort  to  disregard  the  demand.  "Tell  me  why  you 
left  Paris,"  he  repeated. 

Her  eyes  wavered.    The  lids  fluttered. 

"That  night,"  she  began  in  an  uneven  tone,  "I 
gave  you  to  understand,  that  night " 

"You  gave  me  to  understand  that  you  loved 
me." 

He  said  it  fearlessly,  and,  on  the  edge  of  a  sob, 
she  fearlessly  answered  him.  She  had  ceased  to 
struggle.  Her  hands  lay  still  and  cold  in  his. 

j 

"I  told  you  that  love  had  brought  me  a  sword." 
"You've  changed.    What  has  changed  you1?" 
"I  have  not  changed.     I  have  only  come  back 
to  these  unchangeable  mountains,  to  this  unchang 
ing  castle,  to  the  ancient  laws  and  customs  of  my 
people — their  ancient  and  unalterable  laws.     I 
had  to  come  back  to  them,"  she  said,  "because  I 
realized  that  it  was  not  in  me  to  be  false  to  all 
that  my  fathers  have  for  centuries  been  true  to." 
Cartaret  leaned  forward.     He  could  not  be- 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  TRADITIONS    267 

lieve  that  this  was  her  only  reason;  he  could  not 
understand  that  the  sway  of  any  custom  can  be 
so  powerful.  He  held  her  hands  tighter.  His 
eyes  searched  her  quailing  eyes. 

"Do  you  love  me?  That's  all  I  want  to  know, 
and  I'll  attend  to  everything  else.  I've  no  time 
for  sparring.  I've  got  to  know  if  you  love  me. 
I've  got  to  know  that,  right  here  and  now." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Don't!"  she  whispered. 

"Do  you  love  me*?"  he  relentlessly  persisted.' 

"To  love  in  Paris  is  one  thing:  here  I  may  not 
love." 

"You  may  not — but  do  you*?" 

"Don't.  Please  don't.  Oh!"— her  red  lips 
parted,  her  breath  came  fast — "if  love  were 
all " 

"It  is  all !"  he  declared.  He  slipped  both  her 
cold  hands  into  his  right  hand  and  put  his  freed 
arm  about  her  waist.  "Vitoria,"  he  whispered, 
drawing  her  to  him,  "it  is  all.  It's  all  that  mat 
ters,  all  that  counts.  It  can  mock  all  custom  and 
defy  all  law.  I  love  you,  Vitoria."  Slowly  her 


268  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

eyes  closed;  slowly  she  sank  against  his  arm; 
slowly  her  head  drooped  backward,  and  slowly  he 

bent  toward  its  parted,  unresisting  lips "And 

love's  the  one  thing  in  the  world  worth  living  and 
dying  for." 

At  that  word,  she  came  to  sudden  life.  With 
one  wrench,  she  had  darted  from  his  arms.  In 
stantly  she  had  recovered  self-control. 

"No,  no,  no!"  she  cried.  "Go  away !  There  is 
danger  here.  Oh,  go  away !" 

The  suddenness  of  her  action  shattered  his  de 
lirium.  He  read  in  her  words  only  her  reply  to 
the  question  that  he  had  put  to  her. 

Impossible  as  it  would  have  seemed  a  moment 
since,  that  negative  meant  a  catastrophic  denial  of 
any  love  for  him.  He  glanced  at  the  old  walls 
that  surrounded  them — at  all  the  expressions  of  a 
remorseless  elf  in  which  he  could  have  no  part. 
He  felt,  with  a  sudden  certainty,  that  these  things 
were  of  her,  and  she  of  them — that  what  she 
meant  by  her  distinction  between  herself  in  Paris 
and  this  other  self  here  was  the  vast  difference 
between  a  Byzantine  empress  breaking  plebeian 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  TRADITIONS    269 

hearts  in  the  alleys  of  her  capital  and  that  same 
woman  on  her  throne,  passionless  and  raised  above 
the  reach  of  men's  desires. 

The  most  modest  of  young  fellows  is  always  a 
little  vain,  and  his  vanity  is  always  wounded;  it 
is  ever  seeking  hurts,  anxious  to  suffer:  Cartaret 
was  no  exception  to  human  rules.  He  told  his 
heart  that  Vitoria's  words  meant  but  one  thing: 
She  had  entertained  herself  with  him  during  an 
incognito  escapade  and,  now  that  the  escapade  was 
finished,  wanted  no  reminders.  A  Byzantine  em 
press  ?  This  was  worse :  the  empress  gave,  if  only 
to  take  away.  What  Vitoria  must  mean  was  that 
even  her  momentary  softening  toward  him  on  this 
spot  was  no  more  than  momentary.  She  was  say 
ing  that,  having  had  her  amusement  by  making 
him  love  her,  she  was  now  returned  to  her  proper 
station,  where  to  love  her  was  to  insult  her.  He  had 
been  her  plaything,  and  now  she  was  tired  of  it. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "if  you  think  my  love  is 
worth  so  little.  If  you  can't  brave  one  miserable 
medieval  superstition  for  it,  then  I've  got  the  an 
swer  to  what  I  asked  you,  and  you're  right:  I'd 


270  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

better  go."  He  turned  to  the  narrow  door  at  the 
head  of  the  spiral  stairs.  "I  know,"  he  said,  as 
if  to  the  stone  walls  about  them,  "that  I'm  not 
worth  much  sacrifice ;  but  my  love  has  been  worth 
a  sacrifice.  Some  day  you'll  understand  what 
my  love  might  have  meant.  Some  day,  when 
you're  old,  you'll  look  from  one  of  these  windows 
out  over  these  valleys  and  mountains  and  think 
of  what  could  have  happened — what  there  was 
once,  just  this  one  time,  one  chance  for."  He 
half  faced  her.  "Other  men  will  love  you,  many 
of  them.  They'll  love  your  happiness  and  grace 
and  beauty  as  well,  I  dare  say,  as  I  do  and  al 
ways  will.  But  you'll  remember  one  man  that 
loved  your  soul;  you'll  remember  me " 

Vitoria  was  swaying  dizzily.  Her  recaptured 
self-command  visibly  wavered.  She  leaned 
against  the  rough  wall.  He  leaped  toward  her, 
but  she  had  the  strength  left  to  warn  him  away. 

"No,  no,  no!"  she  repeated.  "I  do  not " 

She  raised  her  hands  to  the  vaulted  roof.  By  a 
tremendous  effort  she  became  again  mistress  of 


SOMETHING  ABOUT  TRADITIONS    271 

herself — and  of  him.  "Why  will  you  not  under 
stand?  I  do  not  love  you.  Go!" 

At  that  moment  a  cry  rang  out.  It  was  a  cry 
from  the  gateway.  It  was  the  cry  of  Chitta,  who 
came  bounding  into  the  narrow  room  and  hurled 
herself  at  her  mistress's  feet. 

Before  any  one  of  the  trio  could  speak,  there 
was  the  clatter  of  a  galloping  horse  on  the  road, 
the  thunder  of  hoofs  over  the  drawbridge  above 
that  frightful  chasm. 

"Go!"  shrieked  Vitoria.  "Will  you  never  go? 
Do  you  not  understand  what  this  means?  Do 
you  not  know  who  is  coming  here?" 

Chitta  set  up  a  loud  wail. 

"I  don't  care  who's  coming  here,"  said  Cartaret. 
"If  there's  any  danger " 

Vitoria  leaped  over  the  prostrate  servant  and 
began  pushing  Cartaret  away. 

"I  hate  you!"  she  cried.  "Do  you  hear  that? 
/  hate  you!  Now  will  you  go?" 

He  looked  at  her,  and  his  face  hardened 

"I'll  go,"  ke  said. 


272  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

He  turned  away. 
"My  brother!"  gasped  Vitoria. 
Don  Ricardo  came  in  at  the  door  of  the  tower- 
room. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN    WHICH    CARTARET   TAKES    PART   IN    THE 
REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM 

La  vieille  humanite  porte  encore  dans  ses  entrailles 
la  brutalite  primitive ;  un  anthropoi'de  feroce  survit  en 
chacun  de  nous. 

— Opinions  a  Repandre. 

FOR  a  moment  none  moved.  There  was  Chitta,, 
groveling  on  the  stone  floor  of  the  circular  room, 
her  face  hidden  in  her  hands;  there  was  Vitoria, 
her  arms  outstretched,  struck  rigid  in  the  act  of 
repulsing  Cartaret ;  and  there  were  the  two  men— 
the  American  white,  but  determined  and  unafraid ; 
the  Basque  with  a  dull  red  spreading  on  his  tanned 
cheeks — facing  each  other  as  pugilists,  entering 
the  ring,  face  each  other  at  pause  during  the  fleet 
ing  instant  before  they  begin  to  circle  for  an 
opening.  Cartaret,  with  the  eye  that,  in  times  of 
high  emotion,  takes  account  of  even  trivial  detail, 

noted  how  Don  Ricardo,  who  had  been  forced  to 

273 


274  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

stoop  in  order  to  pass  the  doorway,  gradually 
straightened  himself  with  a  slow,  unconscious 
expansion  of  the  muscles  such  as  a  tiger  might  em 
ploy. 

Vitoria  was  the  first  to  speak:  she  lowered  her 
arms  and  turned  upon  her  brother  a  glance  of 
which  the  pride  proved  that  her  self-possession 
was  regained.  She  spoke  in  English,  though 
whether  for  Cartaret's  comprehension,  for  the 
servant's  mystification,  or  as  an  added  gibe  at 
Ricardo,  the  American  was  unable  to  determine. 

"You  came  unannounced,  brother,"  she  said. 
"I  am  not  accustomed  to  such  entrances." 

The  red  deepened  over  Don  Ricardo's  high 
cheek-bones,  but  he  bit  his  lip  and  seemed  to  bite 
down  his  rage. 

"These  are  not  your  apartments,  Dona  Do- 
lorez,"  he  said,  adopting,  with  visible  repugnance, 
the  language  she  employed.  "And  I  am  the  head 
of  your  house."  He  bent  his  gray  eyes  on  Car- 
taret.  "Be  so  good  as  to  come  with  me,  sir,"  he 
said.  He  stood  aside  from  the  door.  "I  follow 
after  my  guest." 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    275 

Cartaret's  heart  had  place  only  for  the  last 
words  that  Vitoria  had  said  to  him.  He  would 
not  look  at  her  again,  and  he  cared  little  what 
might  happen  to  himself,  so  long  as  he  could  draw 
this  irate  brother  after  him  and  away  from  the 
endangered  women.  Vitoria  had  said  that  she 
hated  him:  well,  he  would  do  what  he  could  to 
save  her,  and  then  leave  Alava  forever.  He  passed 
through  the  door.  .  .  . 

"He  is  my  guest,"  he  heard  Don  Ricardo  say 
ing.  "An  Eskurola  remembers  the  laws  of  hos 
pitality." 

Cartaret  went  on  to  the  court-yard.  There 
his  host  followed  him. 

"Will  you  come  to  my  offices'?"  he  asked. 

He  walked  across  to  the  north  wing  of  the  castle 
and  into  a  large  room  that  looked  upon  the  ter 
race.  The  ceiling  was  a  mass  of  blackened  rafters ; 
the  walls,  wainscoted  in  oak,  were  hung  with 
ancient  arms  and  armor,  with  the  antlers  of  deer 
and  the  stuffed  heads  of  tusked  boar,  and  with 
some  rags  of  long-faded  tapestry.  There  was  a 
yawning  fire-place  at  one  end,  between  high  book- 


276  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

shelves  filled  with  leather-bound  folios,  and,  near 
one  of  the  windows,  stood  an  open  Seventeenth 
Century  desk  massed  with  dusty  papers. 

Eskurola  waved  his  guest  to  a  stiff-backed  chair. 
Cartaret,  seeing  that  Don  Ricardo  intended  to 
remain  standing,  merely  stood  beside  it. 

"Sir,"  began  the  Basque,  "you  have  said  that 
you  are  a  stranger  to  our  country  and  its  ways. 
It  is  my  duty  to  enlighten  you  in  regard  to  some 
details." 

He  towered  nearly  half  a  foot  above  Cartaret. 
The  nostrils  of  his  beaked  nose  quivered  above 
his  bristling  beard,  but  he  kept  his  voice  rigorously 
to  the  conversational  pitch. 

Cartaret,  however,  was  in  no  mood  to  hear  any 
more  exposition  of  Vascongada  manners  and  cus 
toms.  He  had  had  enough  of  them. 

"There's  no  need  of  that,"  he  said.  "If  I've 
done  anything  I  shouldn't  have  done,  I'm  sorry. 
But  I  want  you  to  understand  that  I'm  to  blame : 
I'm  to  blame — and  nobody  else." 

Eskurola  went  on  as  if  Cartaret  had  not  spoken : 

"It  is  not  our  custom  to  present  to  our  ladies 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    277 

such  casual  strangers  as  happen  to  ask  shelter  of 
us;  nor  is  it  the  custom  of  our  ladies  to  permit 
such  presentations,  still  less  to  seek  them.  Of 
that  last  fact,  I  say  but  one  word  more :  the  Dona 
Dolorez  has  been  lately  from  home,  and  I  fear 
that  her  contact  with  the  outer  world  has  tempo* 
rarily  dulled  the  edge  of  her  native  sensitiveness." 

"Look  here,"  said  Cartaret,  his  hands  clenched, 
"if  you  mean  to  imply " 

"Sir!"  The  Basque's  eyes  snapped.  "I  speak 
of  my  sister." 

"All  right  then.  But  you'd  better  be  told  a 
few  facts,  too.  Paris  isn't  Alava.  I  met  the 
Dona  Dolorez  in  Paris.  We  were  neighbors. 
What  could  be  more  natural,  then,  than  that, 
when  I  came  here " 

"Ah-h-h!"  Eskurola  softly  interrupted.  In 
the  meshes  of  his  beard,  his  red  lips  were  smiling 
unpleasantly.  "So  that  was  it!  How  stupid  of 
me  not  to  have  guessed  before,  sir.  I  was  sure 
that  there  had  been  in  Paris  something  beside 
Art." 

Cartaret's  impulse  was  to  fly  at  the  man's  throat. 


278  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

His  reason,  determined  to  protect  the  woman  that 
cared  no  more  for  him,  dictated  another  course. 

"I  wanted,"  he  said  quietly,  "to  make  your 
sister  my  wife." 

The  effect  of  this  statement  was  twofold.  At 
first  a  violent  anger  shook  the  Basque,  and  the 
veins  stood  out  in  ridges  along  his  neck  and  at 
his  temples,  below  the  red  cloth  bound  about  his 
head.  Then,  as  quickly,  the  anger  passed  and  was 
succeeded  by  a  look  reminiscent,  almost  tender. 

"You  know  that  no  alien  can  marry  one  of  our 
people,"  he  said.  "You  know  that  now." 

Cartaret  thought  again  of  Vitoria's  parting 
word  to  him,. 

"I  know  it  now"  he  said. 

"You  are  my  guest,"  Eskurola  pursued.  "I 
shall  tell  you  something.  You  have  seen  me  only 
as  what  must  seem  to  you  a  strange  and  hard 
man — perhaps  a  fierce  and  cruel  man.  I  am  the 
head  of  my  ancient  house;  on  me  there  depends 
not  only  its  honor,  but  also  its  continuance.  Sir, 
I  exact  of  my  relatives  no  less  than  I  have  already 
exacted  of  myself." 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    279 

Cartaret  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  Could 
it  be  possible  that  there  had  ever  been  in  this 
medieval  mind  anything  but  ruthless  pride  of  race  ? 

"Years  ago — but  not  so  many  years  ago  as  you, 
sir,  might  suppose — there  came  to  this  house  a 
young  lady.  She  came  here  as  a  governess  for  my 
sister,  but  she  was  a  lady,  a  person  of  birth.  Also, 
she  spoke  your  language."  He  paused,  and  then 
went  on  in  a  still  gentler  voice.  "Sir,  because  of 
her,  your  language,  barbarous  as  it  is,  has  always 
been  dear  to  me,  and  yet,  still  because  of  her,  I 
have  ever  since  wanted  not  to  speak  it." 

Cartaret  looked  at  the  floor.  Even  though  this 
confession  of  a  past  weakness  was  voluntary,  it 
seemed  somehow  unfair  to  watch,  during  it,  the 
man  whose  pride  was  so  strong. 

"And  you  sent  her  away?"  he  found  himself 
asking. 

"She  went  when  her  work  was  finished.  She 
went  without  knowing." 

Cartaret  raised  his  eyes.  There  was  no  false 
assumption  in  the  man  upon  whom  they  rested :  it 


280  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

was  impossible  to  believe  that,  seeing  him  thus,  a 
woman  would  not  love  him. 

"I'll  go,"  said  Cartaret.  Eskurola's  words  had 
assured  him  of  Vitoria's  safety.  "I'll  go  now." 

"I  would  not  drive  you  away.  You  have  said 
that  you  would  be  my  guest  for  another  night ;  you 
may  remain  as  long  as  you  care  to  remain." 

"I'll  go,"  Cartaret  repeated.  "It  isn't  you 
that's  driving  me.  Will  you  please  send  up  to  my 
room  for  my  saddle-bags,  and  have  my  mare 
brought  around*?" 

Don  Ricardo  bowed.    He  went  out. 

Cartaret  stood  for  some  time  on  the  spot  where 
he  had  been  standing  throughout  the  talk  with 
his  host.  He  was  thinking  of  his  ruined  hopes  and 
of  the  woman  that  had  ruined  them.  Once  he 
asked  himself  what  had  so  changed  her;  but,  when 
he  could  find  no  answer  to  that  question,  he  asked 
what  the  cause  could  matter,  since  the  effect  was 
so  apparent.  He  walked  to  a  window.  He  could 
see  that  part  of  the  terrace  which  lay  between  the 
gate  and  the  drawbridge,  but  he  saw  no  sign  of 
his  mare.  What  could  Eskurola  be  doing"?  He 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    281 

seemed,  whatever  it  was,  to  be  a  long  time  about 
it. 

The  oaken  door  of  the  room  opened  and  closed 
with  a  bang.  Don  Ricardo  stood  before  it.  The 
dull  red  had  returned  to  his  cheeks. 

"Sir,"  said  he,  "I  have  just  been  having  another 
word  with  the  Dona  Dolorez :  she  informs  me  that 
you  have  had  the  impertinence  to  tell  her  that  you 
love  her." 

Cartaret  laughed  bitterly.  "In  my  country," 
he  said,  "when  a  man  wants  to  marry  a  woman  it 
is  customary  to  say  something  of  that  kind." 

"You  are  in  Alava,  sir,  and  you  speak  of  a  mem 
ber  of  my  family." 

''I  was  in  Paris  then." 

"But  this  morning — just  now?"  Eskurola 
came  a  step  forward. 

"I  won't  talk  any  more  about  it,"  said  Car 
taret.  "Please  have  my  mare  brought  around  at 
once." 

"No,"  Eskurola  replied:  "you  shall  talk  no 
more  about  it.  Mr.  Cartaret,  you  must  fight  me.'' 

The  American  could  not  believe  his  ears.    He 


282  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

recollected  that  when  the  Continental  speaks  of 
fighting  he  does  not  refer  to  mere  pugilism. 

"You're  crazy,"  said  Cartaret.  "I  don't  want 
to  fight  you." 

"So  soon  as  you  have  passed  that  gate,  you  will 
be  my  guest  no  longer.  What,  sir,  you  may  then 
want  will  not  matter.  You  will  have  to  fight  me." 

Cartaret  sat  down.  He  crossed  his  legs  and 
looked  up  at  his  host. 

"Is  this  your  little  way  of  persuading  me  to 
stay  awhile*?"  he  asked. 

"You  cannot  go  too  soon  to  please  me." 

"Then  perhaps  you'll  be  good  enough  to  tell 
me  what  it's  all  about." 

Eskurola's  giant  figure  bent  forward.  His  eyes 
blazed  down  in  Cartaret's  face. 

"You  came  into  this  place,  the  place  of  my  peo 
ple,  under  false  pretenses.  I  made  you  welcome; 
you  were  my  guest,  sir.  Yet  you  used  your  op 
portunities  to  insult  my  sister." 

Cartaret  got  slowly  to  his  feet.  He  knew  the 
probable  consequences  of  what  he  was  about  to 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    283 

say,  but,  never  shifting  hL  gaze  from  the  Basque's, 
he  said  it  quietly: 

"That's  a  lie." 

Don  Ricardo  leaped  backward.  It  was  doubt 
less  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  such  a  phrase 
had  been  addressed  to  him,  and  he  received  it  as 
he  might  have  received  a  blow.  Both  in  mind 
and  body,  he  staggered. 

"My  sister  has  told  me "  he  began. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  any  more,  sefior.  I've 
said  all  that  I  have  to  say."  Cartaret  thrust  his 
hands  into  the  pockets  of  his  riding-breeches  and, 
turning  his  back  on  Eskurola,  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

"Now,"  the  Basque  was  saying,  as  his  mental 
balance  reasserted  itself — "now  we  must  indeed 
fight." 

Cartaret  himself  was  thinking  rapidly  and  by 
no  means  clearly.  To  say  that  dueling  was  not 
an  American  custom  would  avail  him  nothing — 
would  be  interpreted  as  cowardice;  to  fight  with 
a  man  bred  as  Don  Ricardo  was  evidently  bred 
would  be  to  walk  out  to  death.  Cartaret 


284  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

looked  at  the  panorama  of  the  mountains.  Well, 
why  not  death*?  Less  than  an  hour  ago  his 
whole  life  had  been  mined,  had  been  sent  crash 
ing  about  his  head.  The  only  thing  that  he 
cared  for  in  life  was  taken  from  him:  Vitoria 
had  herself  declared  that  she  hated  him.  Nor 
that  alone — the  thought  burned  in  his  brain:  she 
had  told  this  wild  brother  of  hers  that  he,  Car- 
taret,  had  insulted  her;  she  had  incited  Eskurola 
to  battle — perhaps  to  save  herself,  perhaps  to 
salve  some  strange  Basque  conception  of  honor 
or  pride.  So  be  it ;  Cartaret  could  render  her  one 
more  service-— the  last:  if  he  allowed  himself  to 
be  killed  by  this  half-savage  who  so  serenely 
thought  that  he  was  better  than  all  the  rest  of  the 
world,  Don  Ricardo's  wounded  honor  would  be 
healed,  and  Vitoria — now  evidently  herself  in 
danger  or  revengeful — would  be  either  safe  or 
pacified.  The  Twentieth  Century  had  never  en 
tered  these  mountains,  and  Cartaret,  entering 
them,  had  left  his  own  modernity  behind. 

"All   right,"    said  he,    "since   you're   so  con- 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    285 

founded  hungry  for  it,  I'll  fight  you.  Anything 
to  oblige." 

He  looked  about  to  find  Eskurola  bowing  grate 
fully:  the  man's  eyes  seemed  to  be  selecting  the 
spot  on  their  enemy's  body  at  which  to  inflict  the 
fatal  wound. 

"I  am  glad,  sir,  that  you  see  reason,"  said  Don 
Ricardo. 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  see  reason,"  said  Cartaret, 
"but  I'm  going  to  fight  you." 

"I  do  not  suppose  that  you  can  use  a  rapier, 
Mr.  Cartaret?" 

It  was  clear  that  not  to  understand  the  rapier 
was  to  be  not  quite  a  gentleman;  but  Cartaret 
made  the  confession.  "Not  that  it  matters,"  he 
reflected. 

"But  you  can  shoot?" 

Cartaret  remembered  the  boyish  days  when  he 
had  taken  prizes  for  his  marksmanship  with  a  re 
volver.  It  was  the  one  folly  of  his  youth  that  he 
had  continued,  and  he  found  a  certain  satisfac 
tion  (so  much  did  Eskurola's  pride  impress  him) 


286  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

in  admitting  this,  albeit  he  did  not  mean  to  use 
the  accomplishment  now. 

"I  carry  this  with  me,"  said  he,  producing  his 
automatic  revolver. 

Don  Ricardo  scarcely  glanced  at  it. 

"That  is  not  the  weapon  for  a  marksman,"  he 
said.  "Nevertheless,  let  me  see  what  you  can 
do.  None  will  be  disturbed;  these  walls  are 
sound-proof."  He  took  a  gold  coin,  an  alfonso, 
from  his  pocket  and  flung  it  into  the  air.  "Shoot !" 
he  commanded. 

Cartaret  had  expected  nothing  of  the  sort.  He 
fired  and  missed.  The  report  roared  through  the 
room;  the  acrid  taste  of  the  powder  filled  the  air. 
Eskurola  caught  the  descending  coin  in  his  hand. 
Cartaret  saw  that  his  failure  had  annoyed  Don 
Ricardo,  and  this  in  its  turn  annoyed  the  Amer 
ican. 

"I  didn't  know  you  were  going  to  try  me,"  he 
said,  "and  I'm  not  used  to  marking  up  the  ceil 
ings  of  my  friends'  houses.  Try  again." 

The  Basque,  without  comment,  flung  up  the 
alfonso  a  second  time,  and  a  second  time  Car- 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    287 

taret  fired.  Eskurola  reached  for  the  coin  as  be 
fore,  but  this  time  it  flew  off  at  an  angle  and 
struck  the  farther  wall.  When  they  picked  it  up, 
they  found  that  it  had  been  hit  close  to  the  edge 
of  the  disk. 

"Not  the  center,"  said  Don  Ricardo. 

"Indeed?"  said  Cartaret.  What  sort  of  shot 
would  please  the  man"?  "Suppose  you  try." 

Eskurola  explained  that  he  was  not  accustomed 
to  such  a  revolver,  but  he  would  not  shirk  the  chal 
lenge  ;  and  there  was  no  need  for  him  to  shirk  it : 
when  Cartaret  recovered  the  alfonso  after  Don 
Ricardo  had  shot,  there  was  a  mark  full  in  its 
middle. 

"So  much  for  His  Spanish  Majesty,"  said  the 
Basque,  as  he  glanced  at  the  mark  made  by  his 
bullet  in  the  face  upon  the  coin.  "We  shall  use 
dueling-pistols.  I  have  them  here."  He  went  to 
the  desk. 

Cartaret  had  no  doubt  that  Eskurola  had  them 
there:  he  probably  had  a  rack  and  thumbscrews 
handy  below-stairs. 


288  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"We  shall  have  to  dispense  with  the  formality 
of  a  surgeon,"  Don  Ricardo  was  saying. 

"It  doesn't  look  as  if  one  would  be  needed," 
Cartaret  smiled;  "and  it  doesn't  look  as  if  we 
were  to  have  seconds,  either/' 

The  Basque  turned  sharply.  "We  are  the  only 
gentlemen  within  miles,  and  we  cannot  have  serv 
ants  for  witnesses.  Moreover,  an  Eskurola  needs 
no  seconds,  either  of  his  choosing  to  watch  his 
safety,  or  of  his  enemy's  to  suspect  his  honor." 

He  pressed  a  spring,  released  a  secret  drawer 
in  the  desk  and  found  what  he  was  seeking:  a 
box  of  polished  mahogany.  Opening  the  lid,  he 
beckoned  to  Cartaret.  There,  on  a  purple  velvet 
lining,  lay  a  beautifully  kept  pair  of  dueling- 
pistols,  muzzle-loaders  of  the  Eighteenth  Cen 
tury  pattern  and  of  about  .32  caliber,  their  long 
octagonal  barrels  of  shining  dark  blue  steel,  their 
curved  butts  of  ivory  handsomely  inlaid  with  a 
Moorish  design  in  gold. 

"Listen,"  said  Eskurola,  "as  we  are  to  have  no 

seconds,  I  shall  write  a  line  to  exculpate  you  in 

'case   you    survive   me.      Then" — his    gray    eyes 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM     289 

shone;  he  seemed  to  take  a  satisfaction  that  was 
close  to  delight  in  arranging  these  lethal  details 
— "also  as  we  are  to  have  no  seconds  to  give  a 
signal,  we  shall  have  but  one  true  shot  between  us. 
Certainly.  Are  we  not  men,  we  two?  And  we 
have  proved  ourselves  marksmen.  You  cannot 
doubt  me,  but  I  have  a  man  that  speaks  French,  so 
that  you  shall  see  that  I  do  not  trick  you,  sir." 

He  went  to  the  door  and  called  into  the  court 
yard.  Presently  there  answered  him  a  man  whom 
Cartaret  recognized  as  one  of  those  who,  the  night 
before,  held  the  dogs  in  leash. 

"Murillo  Gomez,"  said  Eskurola,  in  a  French 
more  labored  than  his  English,  "in  five  minutes 
this  gentleman  and  I  shall  want  the  terrace  to  our 
selves.  You  will  close  the  gate  when  we  go  out. 
You  will  remain  on  this  side  of  it,  and  you  will 
permit  none  to  pass.  Answer  me  in  French." 

The  servant's  face  showed  no  surprise. 

"Out,  senor"  he  said. 

"Now  you  will  take  these  pistols  and  bring  them 
back  without  delay.  In  the  armory  you  will  load 
one  with  powder  and  shot,  the  other  with  powder 


290  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

only.  Neither  this  gentleman  nor  I  must  know 
which  is  which.  You  understand*?" 

The  servant's  face  was  still  impassive. 

"O&z,  senor." 

"Go  then.  Also  see  that  the  Dona  Dolorez  re 
mains  in  her  own  apartments.  And  hurry." 

The  servant  disappeared  with  the  pistols. 
Eskurola,  apologizing  gravely,  went  to  the  desk 
and  wrote — apparently  the  lines  of  which  he  had 
spoken.  He  sanded  them,  folded  the  paper,  lit  a 
candle  and  sealed  the  missive  with  an  engraved 
jade  ring  that  he  wore  on  the  little  finger  of  his 
left  hand. 

"This  is  your  first  duel,  sir?"  he  said  to  Car- 
taret.  He  said  it  much  as  an  Englishman  at 
luncheon  might  ask  an  American  guest  whether  he 
had  ever  eaten  turbot. 

"Yes,"  said  Cartaret. 

"Well,  you  may  have  what  the  gamblers  of 
London  call  'beginner's  luck/  ' 

The  servant  knocked  at  the  door. 

"Will  you  be  so  good  as  to  take  the  pistols?" 
asked  Don  Ricardo  in  English  of  Cartaret.  "It 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    291 

appears  better  if  I  do  not  speak  with  him.  Thank 
you.  And  please  to  tell  him  in  French  that  he  may 
have  your  mare  and  saddle-bags  ready  in  the  gate 
way  within  five  minutes,  in  case  you  should  want 
them." 

Cartaret  obeyed. 

Eskurola  again  held  the  door  for  his  guest  to 
pass. 

"After  you,  sir,"  he  said. 

They  crossed  the  court-yard  leisurely  and 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  for  all  the  world  as  if  they 
were  two  friends  going  out  to  enjoy  the  view. 
Any  one  observing  them  from  the  windows,  had 
there  been  any  one,  would  have  said  that  Don  Ri- 
cardo  was  pointing  out  to  Cartaret  the  beauties 
of  the  scene.  In  reality  he  was  saying: 

"With  your  agreement,  we  shall  fix  the  distance 
at  ten  paces,  and  I  shall  step  it.  There  is  no  choice 
for  light,  and  the  wind  is  at  rest.  Therefore,  there 
being  no  person  to  count  for  us,  I  shall  ask  you 
to  toss  a  coin  again,  this  time  that  I  may  call  it: 
if  I  fail  to  do  so,  you  fire  first;  if  I  succeed,  I 
fire  first.  Permit  me  to  advise  you,  sir,  that,  if 


292  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

you  are  unaccustomed  to  the  hair-trigger,  it  is  as 
well  that  you  be  careful  lest  you  lose  your  shot." 

Eskurola's  manners  were  apparently  never  so 
polished  as  when  he  was  about  to  kill  or  be  killed. 
He  measured  off  the  ground  and  marked  the  stand 
for  each,  always  asking  Cartaret's  opinion.  He 
stood  while  Cartaret  again  tossed  a  glittering  gold- 
piece  in  the  air. 

"Tails!"  cried  Don  Ricardo.  "I  always  pre 
fer,"  he  explained,  "to  see  this  king  with  his  face 
in  the  dust.  Let  us  look  at  him  together,  so  that 
there  will  be  no  mistake." 

The  piece  lay  with  its  face  to  the  terrace. 

"I  win,"  said  Eskurola.  "I  shoot  first.  It  is 
bad  to  begin  well." 

Cartaret  smiled.  With  such  a  marksman  as 
this  Basque  to  shoot  at  one,  the  speech  became  the 
merest  pleasantry.  There  was  only  the  question 
of  the  choice  of  the  pistol,  and  as  to  that 

"If  you  will  open  the  box,  I  shall  choose," 
Eskurola  was  saying.  Evidently  the  choice  was 
also  to  go  to  the  winner  of  the  toss.  Cartaret 
was  certain  this  would  not  have  been  the  case  if 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM     293 

the  toss  had  gone  otherwise.  "I  must  touch 
neither  until  I  have  chosen,  although  the  addi 
tional  powder  in  the  blank  pistol  tends  toward 
making  their  weight  equal." 

Mechanically  Cartaret  opened  the  mahogany 
box.  Don  Ricardo  scarcely  glanced  at  the  pair 
of  beautiful  and  deadly  weapons  lying  on  the 
purple  velvet:  he  took  the  one  farther  from  him. 

"Pray  remember  the  hair-trigger,"  he  continued : 

/ 

"you  might  easily  wound  yourself.  Now,  if  you 
please :  to  our  places." 

Each  man  took  off  his  hat  and  coat  and  stood 
at  his  post  in  his  white  shirt,  his  feet  together,  his 
right  side  fronting  his  enemy,  his  pistol  point 
ing  downwards  from  the  hand  against  his  right 
thigh. 

"Are  you  ready,  sir?"  asked  Eskurola. 

For  a  flashing  instant  Cartaret  wanted  to  scream 
with  hysterical  laughter:  the  whole  proceeding 
seemed  so  archaic,  so  grotesque,  so  useless.  Then 
he  thought  of  how  little  he  had  to  lose  and  of 
whom  he  might  serve  in  losing  that  little.  .  .  . 

"Ready,  senor,"  he  said. 


294  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

If  only  she  could,  for  only  that  last  moment, 
love  him!  That  last  moment,  for  he  made  no 
doubt  of  the  end  of  this  adventure.  The  Basque 
had  been  too  punctilious  in  all  his  arrangements: 
from  the  first  Cartaret  had  been  sure  that  Don 
Ricardo  and  the  French-speaking  servant  had 
played  this  tragic  farce  before,  and  that  the  master 
so  arranged  matters  as  easily  to  choose  the  one 
pistol  that  held  death  in  its  mouth.  To  convict 
him  was  impossible,  and,  were  it  possible,  would 
be  but  to  strike  a  fatal  blow  at  the  honor  of  that 
family  which  Vitoria  held  so  dear.  How  false  his 
vanity  had  played  him!  What  was  he  that  a 
goddess  should  not  cease  to  love  him  when  she 
chose?  Enough  and  more  that  she  had  loved  him 
once;  an  ultimate  blessing  could  she  love  him  a 
moment  more.  But  once  again,  then:  but  that 
one  instant!  To  see  her  pitiful  eyes  upon  him, 
to  hear  her  pure  lips  whisper  the  last  good-by  like 
music  in  his  dying  ears! 

He  saw  the  arm  of  his  enemy  slowly — slowly — 
rising,  without  speed  and  without  hesitation,  as 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    295 

the  paw  of  a  great  cat  rises  to  strike,  but  with  a 
claw  of  shining  steel. 

Cartaret  would  look  his  last  on  the  scene  that 
her  eyes  had  known  when  she  was  a  child,  that 
her  eyes  would  know  long  after  his — so  soon  now ! 
— were  closed  forever.  It  was  mid-morning;  the 
golden  sun  was  half-way  to  the  zenith.  At  Car- 
taret's  left,  above  the  walls,  the  turrets  and  towers 
of  the  Gothic  castle,  rose  the  sheer  front  of  that 
sheer  chalcedonous  peak.  Its  top  was  crowned 
with  the  dazzling  and  eternal  snow;  its  face  was 
waxen,  almost  translucent;  its  outcroppings  of 
cry pto-crystal line  quartz,  multi-toned  by  the  wind 
and  rain  of  centuries,  caught  the  sunlight  and 
flamed  in  every  gradation  of  blue  and  yellow,  of 
onyx,  carnelian  and  sard.  To  the  right  lay  the 
wide  and  peaceful  valley,  mass  after  mass  of 
foliage,  silver-green  and  emerald,  and,  above  that, 
the  ridges  of  the  vast,  scabrous  amphitheater: 
beetling  peaks  of  gray,  dark  pectinated  cones, 
fusiform  apexes,  dancing  lancets  and  swords' 
points,  a  hundred  beetling  crags  and  darting  spires 
under  a  turquoise  sky. 


296  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

(Eskurola's  arm  was  rising  .  .  .  rising.  .  .  .) 

Her  face  came  before  his  eyes ;  not  the  face  of 
the  woman  that  sent  him  from  the  tower-room, 
but  the  face  of  The  Girl  that  had  parted  from  him 
in  his  shabby  studio:  the  frame  of  blue-black 
hair,  the  clear  cheek  touched  with  healthy  pink, 
the  red  lips  and  white  teeth,  the  level  brows,  the 
curling  lashes  and  the  frank  violet  eyes.  .  .  . 
Into  his  own  eyes  came  a  mist;  it  blotted  out  the 
landscape. 

He  dragged  his  glance  back  to  his  executioner. 
He  must  meet  death  face  forward.  A  horrid  fear 
beset  him  that  he  had  been  tardy  in  this — had 
seemed  ever  so  little  to  waver. 

But  Eskurola  had  observed  no  faltering,  and 
had  not  faltered:  his  arm  still  crept  upward.  It 
must  all  have  happened  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  then :  that  impulse  toward  mad  laughter,  that 
thought  of  what  he  had  suffered,  that  realization 
of  the  landscape,  even  the  memory  of  her  face — 
the  Lady  of  the  Rose. 

Don  Ricardo's  arm  had  just  risen  a  trifle  above 
his  shoulder  and  then  come  back  to  its  level. 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    297 

It  would  come  now — the  flash,  the  quick  pang  that 
would  outstrip  and  shut  out  the  very  sound  of 
the  explosion — come  now  and  be  over. 

The  man  was  taking  an  aim,  careful, 
deadly.  .  .  . 

But  if  everything  else  had  been  quick,  this  was 
an  eternity.  Cartaret  could  feel  the  Basque's 
eye,  he  could  see  that  the  leveled  pistol-barrel 
covered  his  throat  directly  below  the  ear.  He 
wanted  to  shout  out  to  Eskurola  to  shoot ;  to  say, 
"You've  got  me !"  He  ground  his  teeth  to  enforce 
his  tongue  to  silence.  And  still  he  waited.  Good 
God,  would  the  man  never  fire? 

Don  Ricardo  was  lowering  his  pistol,  and  his 
pistol  was  smoking.  He  had  fired.  Moreover,  he 
had  aimed  truly.  But  he  had  chosen  his  weapon 
honorably — it  was  the  one  that  did  not  hold  a 
bullet. 

Cartaret  was  dazed,  but  knew  instantly  what 
to  do.  As  if  it  was  the  performance  of  an  act 
long  since  subconsciously  decided  upon,  he  raised 
his  own  pistol  slowly — the  death-laden  pistol — 
and  shot  straight  up  into  the  air.  .  .  . 


298  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

The  smoke  was  still  circling  about  the  Ameri 
can's  head  when  he  saw  Eskurola  striding  toward 
him.  The  Basque's  face  was  a  study  of  humilia 
tion  and  dismay. 

"What  is  this?"  he  demanded.  "After  I  have 
tried  to  kill  you,  you  do  not  kill  me  ?  You  refuse 
to  kill  me?  You  inflict  the  greatest  insult  and 
the  only  one  that  I  cannot  resent?" 

Cartaret  threw  down  his  pistol:  it  frightened 
him  now.  "I  don't  know  whether  it's  an  insult  to 
let  you  live  or  not,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't  care  a 
damn.  Where's  my  mare?" 

He  went  to  the  gate.  It  was  opened  by  the 
French-speaking  servant,  wide-eyed  now,  but  with 
his  curiosity  inarticulate.  Cartaret  mounted.  His 
hand  trembled  as  he  gathered  up  the  reins.  He 
was  angry  at  this  and  at  the  comedy  that  Fate  had 
made  of  his  attempted  heroism.  Was  there  ever 
before,  he  reflected,  a  duel  the  two  principals  of 
which  were  angry  because  they  survived? 

Eskurola  was  standing  at  the  edge  of  the  un- 
railed  drawbridge  that  crossed  the  precipitous 
abyss.  It  was  evident  even  to  Cartaret  that  the 


• 


REVIVAL  OF  AN  ANCIENT  CUSTOM    299 

Basque  was  still  too  amazed  to  think,  much  less 
speak,  coherently ;  that  something  beyond  his  com 
prehension  had  occurred;  that  a  phenomenon 
hitherto  unknown  had  wrecked  his  cosmos. 

"Sir,"  he  began,  "will  you  not  return  first  into 
the  castle  and  there " 

"If  you  don't  get  out  of  my  way,"  said  Car- 
taret,  "I'll  ride  you  into  this  chasm !" 

Don  Ricardo  drew  dumbly  aside,  and  Cartaret 
rode  on.  With  Vitoria  relentless  and  unattain 
able,  abjured  by  the  woman  he  had  loved,  robbed 
even  of  the  chance  to  give  his  life  for  her,  he  was 
riding  anywhere  to  get  away  from  Alava,  was 
fleeing  from  his  sense  of  loss  and  failure.  He  rode 
as  fast  as  the  steep  descent  permitted,  and  only 
once,  at  a  sharp  twist  of  the  way,  a  full  mile  down 
the  mountain,  did  he  allow  himself  to  turn  in  his 
saddle  and  look  back. 

There  was  Eskurola,  a  silhouette  against  the 
gray  walls.  Behind  him  rose  the  castle  of  his 
fathers,  and  back  of  it  the  great  peak  towered, 
through  a  hundred  flashing  colors,  to  its  shining 
crown  of  eternal  snow. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AND    LAST 

It  must  be  a  very  dear  and  intimate  reality  for  which 
people  will  be  content  to  give  up  a  dream. 

— Hawthorne:  The  Marble  Faun. 

SUMMER  held  Paris  in  his  arms  when  Cartaret 
returned  there — held  her,  wearied  from  the  dance 
with  Spring,  in  his  warm  arms,  and  was  rocking 
her  to  sleep.  Romance  had  crowded  commerce 
from  the  boulevards;  poets  wrote  their  verses  at 
the  marble-topped  tables  along  the  awninged  pave 
ments;  the  lesser  streets  were  lovers'  lanes. 

For  Cartaret  had  not  hurried.  Once  the  Pyre 
nees  were  behind  him,  he  felt  growing  upon  him 
a  dread  of  any  return  to  the  city  in  which  he  had 
first  met  and  loved  the  Lady  of  the  Rose ;  ajid  only 
the  necessity  of  settling  his  affairs  there — of  col 
lecting  his  few  possessions,  paying  two  or  three 

remaining  bills  and  bidding  a  last  good-by  to  his 

300 


AND  LAST  301 

friends — drew  him  forward.  He  lingered  at  one 
town  after  the  other,  caring  nothing  for  what  he 
saw,  but  hating  the  thought  of  even  a  week  in  a 
Paris  without  her.  Vaguely  he  had  decided  to  re 
turn  to  America,  though  what  of  interest  life  could 
hold  there,  or  anywhere,  for  him  he  could  not 
imagine:  some  dull  business  routine,  most  likely 
— for  he  would  never  paint  again— and  the  duller 
the  better,.  Thus  he  wasted  a  fortnight  along  the 
Loire  and  among  the  chateaux  of  Touraine  and 
found  himself  at  last  leaving  his  train  in  the 
Gare  D'Orsay  at  the  end  of  a  Summer  afternoon. 
He  made  for  his  own  room  with  the  objectless 
hurry  of  a  native  American,  his  feet  keeping  time 
to  a  remembered  stanza  of  Andrew  Lang: 

"In  dreams  she  grows  not  older 

The  lands  of  Dream  among, 
Though  all  the  world  wax  colder, 

Though  all  the  songs  be  sung; 
In  dreams  doth  he  behold  her 

Still  fair  and  kind  and  young." 

Taciturn  Refrogne  seemed  no  more  surprised 
to  see  him  than  if  tye  had  gone  out  but  an  hour 


302  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

since:  the  trade  of  the  Parisian  concierge  slays 
surprise  early. 

"A  letter  for  monsieur,"  said  Refrogne. 

Cartaret  took  it  from  the  grimy  paw  that  was 
extended  out  of  the  concierge's  cave.  He  went 
on  up  the  stairs. 

The  door  of  the  magic  Room  Opposite — in  all 
probability  commonplace  enough  now — stood 
slightly  ajar,  and  Cartaret  felt  a  new  pang  as  he 
glanced  at  it.  He  passed  on  to  his  own  room. 

His  own  room !  It  was  precisely  as  he  had  seen 
it  last — a  little  dustier,  and  far  more  dreary,  but 
with  no  other  change.  The  table  at  which  she  had 
leaned,  the  easel  on  which  he  had  painted  those 
portraits  of  her,  were  just  as  when  he  had  left 
them.  He  went  to  the  window  at  which  he  used 
to  store  the  provisions  that  Chitta  looted,  and 
there  he  opened  the  envelope  Refrogne  had  given 
him.  It  contained  only  one  piece  of  paper:  A 
Spanish  draft  on  the  Comptoir  General  for  a  hun 
dred  and  twenty  francs,  and  on  the  back,  in  a 
labored  English  script,  was  written: 


AND  LAST  303 

"For  repayment  of  the  sum  advanced  to  my  servant, 
Chitta  Grekekora. 

"Ricardo  B.  F.  R.  Ethenard-Eskurola  (d'Alegria)." 

A  limb  of  wisteria  had  climbed  to  the  window 
and  hung  a  cluster  of  its  purple  flowers  on  the 
sill.  Below,  Refrogne's  lilacs  were  in  full  bloom, 
and  the  laughter  of  Refrogne's  children  rose  from 
among  them  as  piercing  sweet  as  the  scent  of  the 
flowers.  Cartaret  took  a  match  from  his  pocket, 
struck  it  and  set  the  bit  of  paper  aflame.  He 
held  it  until  the  flame  burnt  his  fingers,  crushed  it 
in  his  palm  and  watched  the  ashes  circle  slowly 
downward  toward  the  lilac-trees. 

The  sun  had  set  and,  as  Cartaret  walked  aim 
lessly  toward  the  front  windows,  the  long  shadows 
of  the  twilight  were  deepening  from  wall  to  wall. 
Summer  was  in  all  the  air. 

So  much  the  same!  He  leaned  forward  and 
looked  down  into  the  silent  rue  du  Val-de-Grace. 
He  was  thinking  how  she  had  once  stood  where 
he  was  leaning  now;  thinking  how  he  had  leaned 
there  so  often,  looking  for  her  return  up  that  nar 
row  thoroughfare,  waiting  for  the  sound  of  her 


304  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

light  footfall  on  the  stair.  So  much  the  same,  in 
deed  :  the  unchanged  street  outside,  the  unchanged 
room  within ;  the  room  in  which  he  had  found  her 
on  that  February  night.  Here  she  had  admitted 
that  she  loved  him,  and  here  she  had  said  the 
good-by  thai;  he  would  not  understand — a  few 
short  weeks  ago.  And  now  he  was  back — back 
after  having  heard  her  repudiate  him,  back  after 
losing  her  forever. 

Fate  works  everywhere,  but  her  favorite  work 
shop  is  Paris.  Something  was  moving  in  the 
deepest  shadow  in  the  room — the  shadow  about 
the  doorway.  Blue-black  hair  and  long-lashed 
eyes  of  violet,  lips  of  red  and  cheeks  of  white 
and  pink;  the  incredible  was  realized,  the  miracle 
had  happened :  Vitoria  was  here. 

He  was  beside  her  in  a  single  bound.  He 
thought  that  he  cried  her  name  aloud;  in  reality, 
his  lips  moved  without  speech. 

"Wait,"  she  said.  She  drew  away  from  him; 
but  the  statues  of  the  Greek  gods  in  the  Luxem 
bourg  gardens  must  have  felt  the  thrill  in  the 
evening  air  as  she  faced  him.  She  was  looking 


AND  LAST  305 

at  him  bravely  with  only  the  least  tremor  of  her 
lips.  "Do  you — do  you  still  love  me?"  she  asked. 

Her  voice  was  like  a  violin;  her  words  dazed 
him. 

"Love  you*?  I — I  can't  tell  you  how  much — I 
— haven't  the  words  to  say " 

He  seized  the  hand  with  which  she  had  checked 
him  and  kissed  its  un jeweled  fingers. 

"What  is  it"?  .  .  .  Why  did  you  say  you  hated 
me?  ...  What  has  brought  you  back?  ...  Is 
is  true?  Is  it  true?" 

From  Refrogne's  garden  came  the  last  good 
night-song  of  the  birds. 

"Love  you?  Why,  from  the  day  I  left  you 
— no,  from  that  night  I  found  you  here,  I've 
thought  nothing  but  Vitoria,  dreamed  nothing 
but  Vitoria " 

Now  incoherent  and  afraid,  then  with  hectic 
eloquence  and  finally  with  a  complete  abandon,  he 
poured  out  his  soul  in  libation  to  her.  With  the 
first  word  of  it,  she  saw  that  she  was  forgiven. 

"I  came,"  she  said,  "to — to  tell  you  this :  You 
know  now  that  I  ran  away  from  Paris  because  I 


306  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

loved  you  and  knew  that  I  could  not  marry  you; 
but  you  do  not  know  why  I  said  that  terrible  thing 
which  I  said  in  the  tower-room.  I  was  afraid  of 
what  my  brother  might  do  to  you.  That  is  why  I 
would  not  take  your  kisses.  To  try  to  make  you 
leave  before  he  found  you,  I  sai3  what  first  came 
to  my  mind  as  likely  to  drive  you  away.  I  said 
it  at  what  fearful  cost!  I  blasphemed  against 
my  love  for  you." 

Cartaret  was  recovering  himself.  Love  gives 
all,  but  it  demands  everything : 

TrYour  brother  said  that  I  had  offered  you  some 
insult.  He  said  you'd  told  him  so.  I  thought 
you'd  told  him  that  in  order  to  make  him  all  the 
angrier  against  me." 

"Ever  since»Chitta  and  I  returned  to  our  home, 
he  had  been  suspecting,"  she  said.  "He  would 
not  forgive  me  for  going  away.  Chitta  he  tor 
tured,  but  she  told  him  nothing.  Me,  he  kept 
almost  a  prisoner.  When  you  came,  I  knew  that 
he  would  soon  guess  what  was  true,  so  I  sent  for 
you  that  morning  to  send  you  away,  and  when  that 
failed  and  he  found  us  together,  I  told  him  that 


AND  LAST  307 

we  loved  each  other,  because  I  hoped  that  he  would 
spare  the  man  I  loved,  even  though  he  would 
never  let  me — let  me  marry  that  man.  I  should 
have  known  him  too  well  to  think  that,  but  I  was 
too  afraid  to  reason — too  afraid  for  your  sake. 
He  was  so  proud  that  he  would  not  repeat  it  to 
you  as  I  said  it  to  him :  he  repeated  it  in  the  way 
least  hateful  to  him — and  after  you  had  gone,  I 
found  that  all  I  had  done  served  only  to  make 
him  try  to  kill  you.  Of  this  I  knew  nothing  un 
til  hours  later.  Then — then " 

The  birds  had  ceased  their  song,  but  the  scent 
of  the  lilacs  still  rose  from  the  garden. 

"Don't  you  understand  now?"  she  asked,  her 
cheeks  crimson  in  the  fading  light.  "I  guessed 
you  did  not  understand  then ;  but  don't  you  under 
stand  now1?" 

He  stood  bewildered.  She  had  to  go  through 
with  it. 

"My  brother  had  to  live — you  made  him  live. 
To  kill  himself  is  the  worst  disgrace  that  a  Basque 
can  put  upon  his  family.  Besides,  the  thing  was 
done;  you  had  fired  into  the  air;  nothing  that  he 


3o8  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

might  do  would  undo  that.  At  the  bridge  he 
tried  to  tell  you  so,  but  you  rode  by.  You  know 
— my  brother  told  it  you — that  one  reason  which 
allows  a  foreigner  to  marry  a  Basque.  We  Esku- 
rolas  pay  our  debts;  to  let  you  go  a  creditor  for 
that  was  to  put  a  stain  upon  our  house  indelibly. 
I  would  have  accepted  the  disgrace  and  made  my 
brother  continue  to  accept  it,  had  you  not  now 
said  that  you  still  loved  me;  but  you  have  said 
it.  Oh,  do — do,  please,  understand!"  She 
stamped  her  foot.  "My  brother  is  the  last  man 
of  our  name.  In  saving  him,  you  saved  the  house 
of  Eskurola." 

Cartaret  was  seized  by  the  same  impulse  toward 
hysteria  that  had  seized  him  when  he  first  faced 
Don  Ricardo's  pistol. 

"Was  that  what  he  tried  to  say  at  the  bridge*? 
What  a  fool  I  was  not  to  listen !  If  I  had  all  the 
world  to  give,  I'd  give  it  to  you !" 

He  tried  to  seize  her  hand  again,  but  she  drew 
it  away. 

"And  so,"  she  said,  with  a  crooked  smile  and  a 
flaming  face,  "since  you  say  that  you  love  me, 


AND  LAST  309 

I — I  have  to  pay  the  just  debt  of  my  house  and 
save  its  honor — I  must  marry  you  whether  I  love 
you  or  not." 

He  looked  at  her  with  fear  renewed. 

"Then  you  have  changed?"  he  asked. 

Suddenly  she  put  her  own  right  hand  to  her 
lips  and  kissed  the  ringers  on  which  his  lips  had 
rested. 

"You  have  all  the  world,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "Give 
it  me." 

He  found  both  of  her  hands  this  time,  but  still 
she  kept  him  from  her.  The  scent  of  the  lilacs 
mingled  with  another  scent— a  scent  that  made 
him  see  again  the  tall  Cantabrians.  .  .  .  Sud 
denly  he  realized  that  she  was  wearing  her 
student-blouse. 

"You've  been  here — When  did  you  come  back 
to  Paris?" 

"A  week  ago." 

"To  this  house?" 

"Of  course  I  am  living  in  this  house  as  before, 
and  with  your  friend  Chitta.  You  know  that  I 
could  not  have  lived  anywhere  else  in  Paris.  I 


310  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

couldn't.  So  I  took  the  old  room — the  dear  little 
old  room — again." 

"Before  you  knew  that  I  still  loved  you !"  She 
hung  her  head.  "But  I'll  surely  never  let  you  go 
this  time."  He  held  her  hands  fast  as  if  fearing 
that  she  might  escape  him.  "No  custom — no  law 
— no  force  could  take  you  now.  Tell  me:  would 
you  have  wanted  to  go  back?" 

She  freed  herself.  That  newer  perfume  filled 
the  purple  twilight :  the  pure  perfume  of  the  Azure 
Rose  that  the  wandering  Basque  carries  with 
him  abroad  to  bring  him  safely  home.  She  drew 
the  rose  from  beneath  her  blouse  and  held  it  out 
to  him.  Cartaret  kissed  it.  She  took  it  back, 
kissed  it  too,  went  to  the  nearest  window  and, 
tearing  the  flower  petal  from  petal,  dropped  it  into 
the  Paris  street. 

"No,"  she  said  softly  when  she  had  turned  to 
him  again,  "do  not  kiss  me  yet.  I  want  you  first 
to  understand  me.  I  do  love  my  own  country,  but 
I  cannot  stay  in  it  forever.  I  was  being  smothered 
there  by  all  the  dust  of  those  dead  centuries; 
I  was  being  slowly  crushed  by  the  iron  weight  of 


AND  LAST  311 

their  old  customs  and  their  old  laws — all  hor 
ribly  alive  when  they  should  have  been  long  ago 
in  their  graves.  There  was  nothing  around  me 
that  was  not  old:  old  walls  and  towers,  ancient 
tapestries  and  arms,  musty  rooms,  yellowed  manu 
scripts.  The  age  of  the  place,  it  seemed  to  become 
a  soul-in-itself.  It  seemed  to  get  a  consciousness 
and  to  hate  me  because  I  was  not  as  it  was.  There 
was  nothing  that  was  not  old — and  I  was  young." 
As  she  remembered  it,  her  face  grew  almost 
sulky.  "Even  if  it  had  not  been  for  you,  I  be 
lieve  I  should  have  come  away  again.  I  was  so 
angry  at  it  all  that  I  could  even  have  put  on  a 
Paquin  gown — if  I  had  had  a  Paquin  gown! — 
and  worn  it  at  dinner  in  the  big  dining-hall  of 
my  ancestors." 

He  understood.  He  realized — none  better — 
the  hunger  and  thirst  for  Paris :  for  the  lights  of 
the  boulevards,  the  clatter  of  the  dominoes  on  the 
cafe-tables,  the  procession  of  carriages  and  motors 
along  the  Champs  Elysees,  the  very  cries  and 
hurry  of  the  rue  St.  Honore  by  day  or  the  BouP 
Mich'  by  night.  Nevertheless,  he  had  lately  been 


312  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

an  American  headed  for  America,  and  so  he  said : 

"Just  wait  till  you  see  Broadway !" 

Vitoria  smiled,  but  she  remained  serious. 

"I  wanted  you  to  know  that — first,"  she  said: 
"to  know  that  I  came  away  this  second  time  in 
large  part  because  of  you,  but  not  wholly." 

"I  think,"  said  Cartaret,  "that  I  can  manage 
to  forgive  that." 

"And  then — there  is  something  else.  You  saw 
my  brother  in  a  great  castle  and  on  a  great  es 
tate,  but  he  is  not  rich,  and  I  am  very  poor." 

Cartaret  laughed. 

"Was  that  what  was  on  your  mind*?  My 
dear,  I'm  rich — I'm  frightfully  rich!" 

"Rich*?"    Her  tone  was  all  incredulity. 

"It  happened  the  day  you  left  Paris.  Oh,  I 
know  I  ought  to  have  told  you  at  the  castle,  but 
I  forgot  it.  You  see,  there  was  so  little  time  to 
talk  to  you  and  so  many  more  important  things  to 
say." 

He  told  her  all  about  it  while  the  dusk  slowly 
deepened.  Chitta  should  have  a  salary  for  re 
maining  in  a  cottage  that  he  would  give  her  in 


AND  LAST  313 

Alava  and  never  leaving  it.  He  would  give  his 
friends  that  dinner  now — Houdon  and  Devignes, 
Varachon  and  Gamier — a  dinner  of  celebration 
at  which  the  host  would  be  present  and  to  which 
even  Gaston  Francois  Louis  Pasbeaucoup  and  the 
elephantine  Madame  would  sit  down.  There 
would  be  bushels  of  strawberries.  Seraphin  would 
be  pensioned  for  life,  so  that  he  might  paint  only 
the  pictures  that  his  heart  demanded,  and  Four- 
get — yes,  Cartaret  would  embrace  dear  old  Four- 
get  like  a  true  Gaul.  In  the  Luxembourg  Gardens 
the  statues  of  the  old  gods  smiled  and  held  their 
peace. 

"You — you  can  study  too,"  said  Cartaret. 
"You  can  have  the  best  art-masters  in  the  world, 
and  you  shall  have  them." 

But  Vitoria  shook  her  head. 

"There,"  she  said,  "is  another  confession  and 
the  last.  I  was  the  more  ready  to  leave  Paris 
when  I  ran  away  from  you,  because  I  was  dis 
heartened:  the  master  had  told  me  that  I  could 
never  learn,  and  so  I  was  afraid  to  face  you." 


3H  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

"Then  /'//  never  paint  again,"  vowed  Cartaret. 
"Pictures?  I  was  successful  only  when  I  painted 
pictures  of  you,  and  why  should  I  paint  them  when 
I  have  you?" 

She  looked  at  him  gravely. 

"I  am  glad,"  she  said,  "that  you  are  rich,  but 
I  am  also  glad  that  we  have  both  been  poor — 
together.  Oh," — she  looked  about  the  familiar 
room — "it  needs  but  one  thing  more :  if  only  the 
street-organ  were  playing  that  Scotch  song  that 
it  used  to  play !" 

"If  it  only  were!"  he  agreed.  "However,  we 
can't  have  everything,  can  we*?" 

But  lovers,  if  they  only  want  it  enough,  can 
have  everything,  and,  somehow,  the  hurdy-gurdy 
did,  just  at  that  moment,  begin  to  play  "Annie 
Laurie"  as  it  used  to  do,  out  in  the  rue  du  Val-de- 
Grace. 

Cartaret  led  her  toward  the  darkened  window, 
but  stopped  half-way  across  the  Foom. 

"I  will  try  to  deserve  you,"  he  said.  "I  will 
make  myself  what  you  want  me  to  be." 


AND  LAST  315 

"You  cure  that,"  she  answered,  her  face  raised 
toward  his.  "All  that  I  ask  is  to  have  you  with 
me  always  as  you  are  now."  The  clear  contralto 
of  her  voice  ran  like  a  refrain  to  the  simple  air 
of  the  ballad.  "I  want  you  with  me  when  you  are 
unhappy,  so  that  I  may  comfort  you;  when  you 
are  ill,  so  that  I  may  nurse  you;  when  you  are 
glad,  so  that  I  may  be  glad  because  you  are.  I 
want  to  know  you  in  every  mood :  I  want  to  belong 
to  you." 

High  over  the  gleaming  roofs,  the  moon,  a  disk 
of  yellow  glass,  swung  out  upon  the  indigo  sky 
and  peeped  in  at  that  window.  One  silver  beam 
enveloped  her.  It  bathed  her  lithe,  firm  figure; 
it  touched  her  pure  face,  her  scarlet  lips ;  it  made 
a  refulgent  glory  of  her  hair,  and,  out  of  it,  the 
splendor  of  her  wonderful  eyes  was  for  him. 

"Soon,"  he  whispered,  "in  the  chapel  of  Ste. 
Jeanne  D'Arc  at  the  church  of  St.  Germain  des 
Pres." 

"Good-night,"  she  said.  .  .  .  "Good-night,  my 
love." 


3i6  THE  AZURE  ROSE 

She  raised  her  white  hands  to  him  and  drew  one 
step  nearer.  Then  she  yielded  herself  to  his  arms 
and,  as  they  closed,  strong  and  tight,  about  her, 
her  own  arms  circled  his  neck. 

The  scent  of  the  Azure  Rose  returned  with  her 
lips :  a  vision  of  mountain-peaks  and  sunlight  upon 
crests  of  snow,  a  perfume  sweeter  than  the  scent 
of  any  rose  in  any  garden,  a  poem  in  a  language 
that  Cartaret  at  last  could  understand. 

Her  lips  met  his.  .  .  . 

"Oh,"  he  whispered,  "sweetheart,  is  it  really, 
really  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  lady  of  the  Rose,  "it — is  me!" 


THE  END. 


AND  LAST  317 


ENVOI:  THE  SON  OF  JOEL. 

The  poet  is  a  beggar  blind 

That  sits  beside  a  city  gate, 
The  while  the  busy  people  wind 

Their  daily  way,  less  fortunate. 

The  many  pass  with  slavish  speed; 
The  few  remember  this  or  that; 

Some  hear  and  jeer,  some  stop  to  heed— 
And  some  drop  pennies  in  his  hat.  .  .  .  < 

0,  you  that  pause  and  understand, 
Though  I  may  never  see  your  face, 

Across  the  years  I  touch  your  hand: 

1  kiss  you  through  the  leagues  of  space/ 

R.  W.  K. 


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Author  of  "The  Trail  of  the  Waving  Palm'' 

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THE   TRAIL    OF    THE   WAVING   PALM,   by   Page 
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"A  story  of  the  open  that  is  highly  captivating  throughout." — 
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And  Paul   Verdayne  —  what    of  him  ? 

Of  course  you  want  to  know. 

Read  the  sequel 

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